
Class 
Book_. 
Copyright N° 

COPYRIGHT DEPOSm 



PASSERS-BY 

BY 

C HADDON CHAMBERS 




SAMUEL FRENCH, 28-30 West 38th St., New York 



PASSERS-BY 



A PLAY IN FOUR ACTS 

BY 
C. HADDON CHAMBERS 




Revised, 1919, By C. Haddon Chambers 
Copyright, 1920, By C. Haddon Chambers 

All Rights Reserved 



CAUTION : — Professionals and amateurs are hereby- 
warned that "PASSERS-BY," being fully protected 
under the copyright laws of the United States, is 
subject to a royalty, and any one presenting the play 
without the consent of the author or his authorized 
agents will be liable to the penalties by law provided. 
Applications for the amateur acting rights must be 
made to Samuel French, 28-30 West 38th Street, New 
York. Applications for the professional acting rights 
must be made to Messrs. Sanger & Jordan, Times 
Building, New York. 



NEW YORK 

SAMUEL FRENCH 

PUBLISHER 

28-30 WEST 38TH STREET 



LONDON 

SAMUEL FRENCH, Ltd. 

26 SOUTHAMPTON STREET 

STRAND 






Especial notice should be taken that the possession of this 
book without a valid contract for production first having 
been obtained from the publisher, confers no right or license 
to professionals or amateurs to produce the play publicly or 
in private for gain or charity. 

In its present form this play is dedicated to the reading 
public only, and no performance of it may be given except 
by special arrangement with Samuel French, 28-30 West 3Sth 
Street, New York. 

SECTION 28— That any person who wilfully or for profit 
shall infringe any copyright secured by this act, or who shall 
knowingly and wilfully aid or abet such infringement shall 
be deemed guilty of a misdemeanor, and upon conviction 
thereof shall be punished by imprisonment for not exceeding 
one year, or by a fine of not less than one hundred nor more 
than one thousand dollars, or both in the discretion of the 

, court. 

> 

pjtd of March 4, 1909. 



©CI.D 54550 

MAY 13 1920 

- j 



PERSONS CONCERNED 

Mr. Peter Waverton (27) 
William Pine, his man-servant (40) 
Nighty, a cabman (60) 
Samuel Burns, a tramp (36) 
Margaret Summers (25) 

The Lady Hurley, Waverton' s half-sister (45) 
Miss Beatrice Dainton, Lady Hurley's niece (23) 
Little Peter Summers (6) 

Mrs. Parker, Waverton' s cook-housekeeper (60) 
Period : Our own times 

ORIGINAL PRODUCTION 

The first production of Passers-by was made at 
Wyndham's Theatre, London, under the manage- 
ment of Messrs. Frank Curzon and Gerald du 
Maurier, on the. evening of March 29, 191 1, with. the 
following cast : — 

Mr. Peter Waverton . Mr. Gerald du Maurier 
Pine ...... Mr. Gayer Mackay 

Nighty Mr. George Shelton 

Samuel Burns . . . Mr. O. P. Heggie 
Margaret Summers . Miss Irene Vanbrugh 
The Lady Hurley . . Miss Helen Ferrers 
Beatrice Dainton . . Miss Nina Sevening 
Little Peter Summers Miss Renee Mayer 



PASSERS-BY 



ACT I 



Scene: A handsome sitting-room in a bachelor's 
apartments on the first floor of a house in Pic- 
cadilly, opposite the Green Park. It is obvi- 
ously the room of a man of comfortable means 
and good taste. The decoration and furniture 
are of the Adams period. (For details of scene 
see accompanying plan.) 

(Note. — This plan is absolutely essential, and 
can be copied from the Dickworth (London) 
publication.) 

Time: It is about half-past ten at night in the 
winter, and there is a cheerful fire in the room. 

At rise of curtain stage is in darkness, save 
for the reflection through the windows of the 
lights in the street below. 

Pine, who is smoking a cigar, is up l.c, look- 
ing out of window. Suddenly he flings the 
window open and calls across the road. 

Pine. Nighty! (Slight pause. As the call re- 
ceives no response he whistles in a peculiar way. 
This apparently attracts attention and he zvaves his 
arm, inviting the person signalled to cross the road. 
After another slight pause, during which he watches 
Nighty cross the road, he bends out of the window 
and speaks to him.) Come along up! (Slight 
pause) Oh, yes, it's all right. (He withdraws into 
the window, which he closes. Pine then goes down 

5 



6 PASSERS-BY 

r.c, switches on electric light, then crosses up to 
sideboard and brings down tray, on which are de- 
canters, syphons, and glasses. As he comes down 
there is a knocking on outer door; he places tray 
on table doivn r. and exits r.ie., and the slamming 
of the outer door is heard. A few moments later 
Pine re-enters, accompanied by Nighty. Pine 
switches on more light. Nighty is a typical Lon- 
don cabman of about sixty, weather-beaten, broad- 
shouldered and slightly stooping. His face is at 
once cheerful and shrewd, and he has the quality of 
being deferential without any sacrifice of his natu- 
ral pride. He is very warmly clad. As he enters 
the room he takes his hat off. 

Pine. (Behind table r.) Pretty cold outside ! 

Nighty. (Down r.) Nippy, I call it, but I've 
known worse. 

Pine. A little something to warm the chest 
wouldn't hurt anyway. 

Nighty. Thank you, kindly, Mr. Pine, I could 
do with it, and that's a fact. (Pine busies himself 
with decanter and glass) Me and my old horse 
are just going to have our supper. 

Pine. I saw you drive up to the shelter. Had 
a good job? 

Nighty, (r. of table r.) Fair! Stout party 
with a couple of kids to Ravenscourt Park — 'Am- 
mersmith for short — an extra bob for crossing the 
radius, and nothing for all the way back. Your 
'ealth, Mr. Pine. (He drinks from the glass Pine 
has handed to him, then puts glass on table) 

Pine. Same to you, Nighty ! (He drinks) 

Nighty. Prime stuff ! Goes straight to the spot. 

Pine. Have a cigar? (Points to box, which is 
open, on table) 

Nighty. No, thank you, Mr. Pine, a drop of 
whisky is only a drop of whisky, and no one would 
grudge it to an old cabman on a cold night. But 



PASSERS-BY Z 

when it comes to them things. (Picks up box) 
Lord! it's like eating money. Couple o' bob a 
touch, I shouldn't wonder! (Puts box back on 
table) 

Pine. You wouldn't be so squeamish if you'd 
been brought up in service. (He gives Nighty a 
chair, then crosses down l.) 

Nighty. (Sits chair l. of table r.) We're all 
in service, Mr. Pine, from the highest to the lowest. 
The difference between you and me is that you only 
take orders from one boss while I take 'em from 
everybody that hires my cab. 

Pine. (By sofa l.) All the same I often envy 
you your job. 

Nighty. Why ? You've got a good boss, haven't 
you? I only knows him by sight, but he looks all 
right. 

Pine. Oh, he's pretty well. Anyway he doesn't 
count his cigars and measure his whisky as some 
of 'em do. He's open-handed enough — but you 
never make no headway with him. I've lived with 
him three years now, and I don't know him as well 
as I know you. (Crosses r. a little) Is he human? 
That's what I ask. 

Nighty. We're all human when you pull the 
mask off. 

Pine. (Crosses r. to below table) It'd take 
'ydraulic power to pull his mask off. 

Nighty. Maybe he's had reason to fix his tight 
on. You never know. (Pine helps him to more 
whisky) Thanks, only a drain. I'll have to keep 
m' eyes bright to-night. It's very thick down at 
Knightsbridge and if I'm a judge you'll have it 
black up here presently. 

Pine. (Sitting on edge of table r.) I've never 
known so much fog as we've had this year. 

Nighty. (Rising) Well, I must pop off. I'm 
going to take my old 'orse 'ome after supper, before 



8 PASSERS-BY 

it gets too thick. (Through the window the fog can 
be seen gathering in eddies.) See, it's creeping up 
a bit already. (The noise of a latch-key in a door is 
heard outside) 

Pine. (Startled) Good Lord! 

Nighty. What's the matter ? 

Pine. That can't be the guv'nor. 

Nighty. (Comes down c. a little) Why can't 
it? 

Pine. I've never known him to come in before 
one. 

Nighty. (With a significant look at the cigar 
Pine is smoking) I wouldn't go nap on that if I 
was you. 

(Pine picks up cigar-box, hastily crosses l. and 
places it in drawer in cabinet l., then he throws 
the remainder of his cigar into the fireplace. At 
the same moment enter Peter Waverton. He 
is a good-looking, well-set-up man of 2/. The 
expression on his face is at once grave and in- 
different. It is the expression of one who re- 
sents rather than enjoys life. He is, however, 
capable of a rare and very winning smile. He 
raises his eyebrows in momentry amazement 
when he sees the two men in his room.) 

Waverton. (r.) Well, I'm damned! (Leaves 
door open) 

Nighty. All I can say, m'lord, is yer don't look 
it. 

Waverton. Don't call me m'lord. 

Nighty. Very well, guv'nor, but some likes it. 

Waverton. I don't! My name is Waverton. 
Who are you? 

Pine. (By fireplace l.) Beg pardon, sir, it was 
a liberty, I know, but I asked him in. It's Nighty, 
the cabman. 

Nighty. So called, guv'nor, because I've been 



PASSERS-BY 9 

doing night work for thirty years. No offence, I 
'ope, sir! 

Waverton. (Ironically) I trust you have been 
suitably entertained in my regrettable absence, Mr. 
Nighty ? 

Nighty. The best, guv'nor — thank you kindly. 

Waverton. (Cross behind table, r.) A little 
more whisky? 

Nighty. Much obliged, sir, enough's as good 
as a hogshead, so I'll just 'op along. (Cross r. he 
salutes Waverton and goes to the door, then he 
turns and says gently) I should be sorry to think, 
guv'nor, that through 'is kindness to me — Mr. 
Pine 

Waverton. Good night ! Pine, show Mr. Nighty 
the way. (Exeunt Pine and Nighty r. i e. — leave 
door open. Waverton zvalks to the mantelpiece 
l., and glances at the remainder of the cigar that 
Pine has thrown into the fireplace. The noise of 
the outer door closing is heard. He gives a gesture 
of disgust. Enter Pine, r. i e., closes door, then 
crosses up r., gets small tray there — crosses down 
to table r. and takes up the glasses that have been 
used. Waverton, by fireplace) In taking my to- 
bacco and whisky, you exceed your duty, Pine. 

Pine. Yes, sir. 

Waverton. In using my room to entertain your 
friend yoa permitted yourself a gross liberty. 

Pine. Yes, sir. 

Waverton. And in throwing away, half-smoked, 
one of my best cigars, you committed a crime. 

Pine. Yes, sir. I hope that you'll allow me to 
apologise, sir. 

Waverton. (With angry emphasis) I'll do noth- 
ing of the kind. I'd rather receive a blow than an 
apology from any man at any time. I thought I 
could trust you. It seems I can't. You must find 
another place. 



io PASSERS-BY 

Pine. Yes, sir. (He goes to the door R. 2 e., 
carrying the glasses on a tray — he turns before leav- 
ing and says) I'm sorry, sir. 

Waverton. (Shortly) So am I. (Removes 
coat and muffler and throws them on sofa. (Exit 
Pine r. 2 e. Waverton walks to the window impa- 
tiently, looks out and shivers at the prospect. The 
telephone bell rings. He goes to the instrument, 
zvhich is on a writing-table, and takes up the re- 
ceiver. Crossly) Hello! Hello! Who is that? 
(Then he changes to a more amiable tone) Oh, is 
that you, Beatrice? (Listens for a moment) Cross 
with you? Good Heavens, no! I came away sim- 
ply because I was bored. (Listens for a moment) 
Yes, bored with the others, of course. My dear 
Bee, how you can stand that set, I don't know. 
What was the one and only topic of conversation 
during dinner? "What will the dear Duchess do 
now?" — What the devil do I care what the dear 
Duchess will do now? The dear Duchess' love 
affairs leave me entirely cold. The only love af- 
fairs that interest me are my own. (Listens for 
a moment, takes off hat and places it on table, then 
laughs slightly) Of course, I mean, affair, you child. 
(Listens for a moment) Oh, no doubt you were 
bored too, but you didn't show it. (Listens for a 
moment) No, I shan't go out any more to-night. 
I am sick to death of bridge, anyway. (He listens 
for a moment, then laughs with an approach to 
heartiness) All right! (Listens for a moment) 
Yes, yes, to-morrow, then. Good night, dear. (Puts 
down the receiver, is thoughtful for a moment, then 
takes a book — crosses to sofa and sits — another mo- 
ment's thought, looks over to door r. 2 e., rises, 
flings book on sofa, rings the bell and stands at the 
fireplace. Enter Pine r. 2 e., crosses down to sofa 
and collects coat, wrap and hat) Pine, I came home 



PASSERS-BY II 

in a very bad temper, and I have an uneasy feeling 
that I may have judged you too hardly. 

Pine. (l. c.) I make no complaints, sir. 

Waverton. (By fireplace) Everything after all 
is a question of point of view. You were brought 
up in service? 

Pine. Yes, sir, like my father and mother before 
me. I rose from steward's boy, sir. 

Waverton. Ah ! and the point of view in service 
is that a man may make free with his employer's 
goods without being considered dishonest. 

Pine. Within reason, sir, particularly in re- 
gard to food, drink, tobacco, and such like. Prac- 
tically every valet and butler in England does it. 
Most go a great deal further. I could make your 
hair stand on end, sir, with the robbery that goes 
on. (Movement from Waverton ) I'm not seek- 
ing to justify myself, but I've never belonged to that 
lot. I've always respected myself, sir. (Cross n.) 

Waverton. Then from your point of view 
you've never been dishonest? 

Pine. Never, sir. 

Waverton. And have you any point of view to 
explain your use of my rooms for purposes of en- 
tertainment instead of your own? 

Pine. I have my excuse, with respect, sir. 

Waverton. (Leans against r. end of sofa l.) 
What is it? (Motions to Pine, who puts coat and 
wrap on chair, r., and hat on table) 

Pine. (Cross l. a little) Your rooms look out 
on to Piccadilly — on to Life, sir. My rooms look 
out on to a dead wall — on to nothing — I love life, 
sir — forgive the liberty. 

Waverton. (With a short laugh) Well, at least 
you've been candid, Pine. 

Pine. I was glad to be, sir. It's the first chance 
I've had during the three years I've been with you. 

Waverton. What do you mean ? 



12 PASSERS-BY 

Pine. I mean, with respect, sir, that it's the first 
time I've exchanged remarks with you except in the 
way of service. 

Waverton. (A little surprised) Why, Pine, 
the truth is I never looked on you as human. 
(Rises, and crosses round l. of settee to win- 
dow) 

Pine. Mr. Nighty was saying when you came 
in, sir, that we're all human when the mask is pulled 
off. 

Waverton. Nighty's a philosopher? 

Pine. Yes, sir — not that I'm a judge. 

Waverton. (Looking out of window) What a 
night ! 

Pine. (Above chair, r.c.J It's a bit cheerless, 
sir. 

Waverton. Pine, did you ever suffer from an 
unaccountable depression ? 

Pine. Feeling of sadness, sir — melancholy, so to 
speak ? 

Waverton. More than that — a feeling that dis- 
aster is in the air — that something unexpected is 
going to happen ? 

Pine. The feeling that some one is walkin' over 
your grave, sir ? 

Waverton. (Up l.) Well, yes — I suppose that 
expresses it. 

Pine. (By chair, r.c.J I haven't been a per- 
sonal sufferer, sir, but I've known cases. Take the 
late lamented Hearl Edendork, for instance. I was 
dressing his lordship the night before he was run 
over by a motor-car, and he said to me — "Pine," he 
said 

Waverton. (Crosses down c. to r., dryly) Yes, 
I've no doubt his lordship made a very intelligent 
remark, Pine. 

Pine. He did, sir — also his lordship made it a 
practice to walk under ladders. 



PASSERS-BY 13 

Waverton. (Secretly amused) You are well 
up in the superstitions, Pine. 

Pine. I've made a particular study of 'em, sir. 

Waverton. (Down r.) And you're a true be- 
liever ? 

Pine. With respect, sir, I not only believe, but 
conform. 

Waverton. (Laughing, crosses l. to fireplace) 
Then you are human indeed ! Damme Pine, you 
amuse me ! and you may stay on here if you want to. 

Pine. I should be grateful, sir. 

Waverton. You may be, provided you don't ex- 
press it. You may even exercise your point of view 
on my whisky, but you'll be good enough to leave 
my cigars alone until you've learned the proper ap- 
preciation of fine tobacco. 

Pine. (Behind table r.) You may trust me, sir. 

Waverton. As for using my rooms, let me see 
— it's the window that attracts you, isn't it? (He 
walks to the window) 

Pine. It's the passers-by, sir. 

Waverton. (Slowly) The passers-by, eh? 
(Looks out curiously) They're a drab-looking lot 
to-night. 

Pine. ( Up r. to window) I find watching them 
takes me out of myself, sir. Sometimes, not know- 
ing any one's looking, they'll play up most natural. 

Waverton. (Looking intently) What's that 
chap doing over there ? 

Pine. Which one, sir? 

Waverton. That one with the hair. (Motions 
to Pine, who joins him at window) There ! He's 
picked up something and put it in his pocket ! 

Pine. (Freezing up severely) Oh, 'e's no good, 
sir. He's not human. (He turns away from win- 
dow) 

Waverton. (Picking him up quickly) Not 
human. How do you know? 



i 4 PASSERS-BY 

Pine. He belongs to the dregs — to the class that 
lives on what they pick up and charity. Sinful, I 
call it, sir. 

Waverton. You don't know him? 

Pine. No, sir. 

Waverton. Yet you presume to judge him? 

Pine. (Firmly) I know the class, sir. (Slight 
pause) 

Waverton. (Suddenly) Fetch him in here. 

Pine. (Amazed) Fetch 'im in 'ere, sir? 

Waverton. Certainly. Why not? 

Pine. Excuse me, sir, but it's my duty to warn 
you. No good can come of mixing with that class. 

Waverton. Do what I tell you. (Pine goes 
down r. and picks up coat, etc.) I, too, want taking 
out of myself and I choose my own methods. And 
bring your friend Nighty back; I'd like to make a 
better impression on him. 

Pine. (Goes to door, where he turns — solemnly) 
Mr. Waverton — sir — if I might venture to entreat 
you 

Waverton. (Lightly) You might venture — but 
in vain. Go quickly! (Exit Pine, r.ie., shuts 
door. Now in good spirits) That's all right! 
(Comes down — hesitates — then takes off telephone 
receiver) Hello! Give me 17004 Mayfair. 
(Pause) Hello, is that Lady Hurley's house? . . . 
Oh — it's you, Simpson? Is Miss Beatrice there? 
Oh . . . playing bridge. See if she can manage to 
speak to me for a moment. (Pause, gets cigarette 
from box and lights it) Hello ! (He smiles) Oh, 
Bee — sorry to interrupt, but I didn't want you to go 
to bed thinking me an old pig. (He listens and 
smiles) No, I'm not an old pig, am I? — and I 
didn't at all mean to be beastly — but I had an at- 
tack of the blues. Pine diagnosed for me. It ap- 
pears there was some one taking quite a nice stroll 
over my grave. (Listens and laughs) Yes, all may 



PASSERS-BY 15 

yet be well. . . . Kiss you good night ? . . . Wish 
I could. . . . Oh, your photograph. — Wait a mo- 
ment. (He reaches for a framed photograph on 
writing-table , lifts it and kisses it) There, did you 
hear it? The deed's done. (Noise of outer door) 
Yes — good night, dearest ! To-morrow ! (Puts re- 
ceiver down, also photo, which is placed at r. end 
of table. The room door r.ie. is opened by Pine, 
who shows in Samuel Burns and enters himself. 
Samuel Burns is a thin man, looking almost any 
age from twenty-five to forty, and about five feet 
five inches in height. He owns an expressionless 
face, with lustreless eyes, and a short, thin, neg- 
lected beard and moustache . His hair is straw-col- 
oured, and bulges out at the sides. He is obviously 
a wastrel. His clothes are odd and too small for 
him, and he wears an old travelling cap. His pock- 
ets bulge with a variety of impedimenta. He has a 
habit of carrying his arms in front of him, and tuck- 
ing his hands into the opposite sleeves. He also has 
a habit of looking on the ground and picking up 
unconsidered trifles, such as pins. Altogether he 
cuts a figure painfully negative, pathetic, and un- 
attractive, and there is a touch of surprise and alarm 
in his mild face as he looks at Waverton and 
around the room. Waverton comes down to be- 
low chair, l.c. A little embarrassed — clears his 
throat) It was very kind of you to step up — Mr. — 
er — my good fellow. 

Burns. (Whose voice is thin and high-pitched, 
r.c.J No 'arm, Mister. — It was this 'ere gent as 
fetched me. (Indicates Pine with a nod) 

Waverton. (Fidgeting and still embarrassed, 
while Pine stands motionless as if on duty r.) And 
— er — by what name am I to address you? 

Burns. My name, do you mean? 

Waverton. If you'd be so good. 



16 PASSERS-BY 

Burns. Burns, as far as I recollect — Samuel 
Burns — but nobody calls me nothing. 

Waverton. Oh — no nickname — or — or pet 
name? 

Burns. Nothing like that, mister — unless it's 
"man." 

Waverton. "Man?" 

Burns. Yes. Sometimes when people give me 

things they say, " 'Ere, man" (Waverton 

turns aside up l. with a slight groan and rubs his 
chin — Pine nudges Burns gingerly) 

Pine. (In a whisper) Take your cap off. 

Burns. (Starting) What, me? Yes, sir. 
(Takes his cap off hastily. Waverton and Pine 
catch each other's eyes over Burns' head — their em- 
barrassment is unconsciously humorous ) 

Waverton. (With sudden asperity) Well, 
Pine, get along! 

Pine. Excuse me, sir, but I don't take you. 

Waverton. You brought this gentleman here. 

Pine. (Firmly) By your orders, sir. 

Waverton. You presumed to form a certain 
judgment. Give Mr. Burns an opportunity of ex- 
plaining 

Pine. (Preparing for a moral effort) I'll do my 
best, sir. (Then to Burns, after clearing his throat) 
How came you to fall so low, my good man? 

Burns. Me? Fall? I ain't fallen, sir! I'm 
very good on me pins. CWaverton and Pine ex- 
change another eloquent look) 

Pine. (Nervously) May I speak to you a mo- 
ment, sir. (He crosses to Waverton. They both 
walk down l. and away from Burns. Burns mean- 
while, discovering a pin stuck in the carpet, stoops 
down and captures it, and sticks it in his waistcoat 
— Pine lowers his voice) As I feared, sir, 'opeless. 
Nighty's coming over presently. You'll find 'im more 
interestin' — a very well-informed, respectable man. 



PASSERS-BY 17 

Waverton. What's the matter with this one? 

Pine. He fair gives me the creeps, sir. He 
doesn't amount to anything at all. He's simply 
nothing. It's 'orrible. Hadn't I better give him a 
trifle and let him go? 

Waverton. Certainly not ! We haven't learned 
anything about him yet. You said you knew the 
class. I think you're a bit of a fraud, Pine. 

Pine. He frightens me close to — makes me ner- 
vous, sir. 

Waverton. Nonsense ! That is what comes of 
being brought up in the iron security of service. 
The man's quite harmless. 

Pine. So is a cockroach, sir. 

Waverton. You forget yourself, Pine. The 
gentleman is my guest, and must be suitably enter- 
tained. Is there any food in the place? 

Pine. There's cold chicken, sir, and ham. 

Waverton. (Turning to Burns,) You'll stay 
to supper, I hope, Mr. Burns. 

Burns. Supper ? — me ? — 'Ere ? 

Waverton. I hope you'll give me that pleasure. 

Burns. 'Scuse me, mister, but if the gentleman 
would wrap my bit up in a lump of newspaper 

Waverton. That would rob me of the advan- 
tage of your agreeable conversation, Burns. You 
must let me have my way this time. Pine, supper ! 

Pine. In the kitchen, sir ? 

Waverton. No. Here, of course. (Goes round 
sofa up l., then down to PineJ Something on a 
tray. (To chair, l.c. Pine hesitates, then clears 
'able r., and puts tray on sideboard up r. Waver- 
ton waves him off imperiously. Exit Pine r.2e. 
Burns, after a timid look round, has remained 
standing) Sit down, Burns. 

Burns. Me, mister? Where? 

Waverton. Here ! (Pulls chair from writing- 
table to c. Burns, with a visible moral effort, sits 



18 PASSERS-BY 

on the edge of the arm-chair) No, that's not right. 
(Waves him back) What do you suppose a chair is 
for? Get your teeth into the damned thing. 

Burns. (Gives vent to a squeaking little laugh) 
My! 

Waverton. (Sitting on edge of writing-table ) 
There, you see you're laughing. You're all right. 

Burns. (With a touch of vanity) Oh, yes, I'm 
all right, mister. There's nothing the matter with 
me. 

Waverton. It's pretty bad out to-night. 

Burns. Bad, d'you call it? Why I've known 
it snow, an' sleet, an' rain, an' fog, an' freeze all at 
wunst. It's a wonderful place is London ! 

Waverton. You have a cheerful nature, Burns. 

Burns. No good grumbling, mister. 

Waverton. And yet the world doesn't seem to 
have used you very well? 

Burns. I make no complaints. 

(Enter Pine to lay the cloth, which he takes from 
drawer in table, r.) 

Waverton. You never kick, eh? 

Burns. Me, mister? No. I'm all for peace and 
quietness. 

Waverton. (Crosses r. to table) Hear that, 
Pine? Mr. Burns has a cheerful nature. He 
doesn't grumble. He makes no complaints and he 
never kicks. 

Pine. It's uncanny, sir — that's what it is — un- 
canny. 

Waverton. (In a lower voice) I had him 
laughing just now — you missed that! 

Pine. I consider I was well out of it, sir. 

(Exit Pine r.2e. 

Waverton. (Sitting on table r.) We get along 
very well, Burns, you and I. I suppose it is be- 



PASSERS-BY 19 

cause we don't agree too much. With regard to 
the weather, for instance, you contradicted my views 
with remarkable emphasis. Now as to this kicking 
business, I think you're wrong. If I were in your 
condition in life I should kick like the devil. I 
should expect the State, which produced me, to 
either mend me or end me. 

Burns. (Over whose head this speech has passed 
— with mild cheerfulness) You never know yer 
luck. 

Waverton. An apt quotation, I admit; but I 
should have thought some employment might have 
been found — some light form of work 

Burns. Work, mister? Work's for workmen. 

Waverton. By Jove, you've said it all, Burns, 
in one flaming epigram. "Work's for workmen" — 
You interest me extremely. (Sits chair r.cJ Would 
it be indiscreet of me to ask what you were 
looking for when I first saw you over by the cab- 
shelter ? 

Burns. Me, mister? Any odd bit. You never 
know what'll come in 'andy. Take a bit of string, 
for instance. It's wonderful comfortable to tie up 
the bottom of your trousers when the weather's 
sharp. 

Waverton. That's worth knowing. I must try 
it. 

Burns. (Earnestly ) Sometimes you'll find 
something or some one'll give you something as ain't 
no use. Put it by, I say — put it by — Tde it till 
such time as it comes in 'andy — Tde it — that's busi- 
ness. 

Waverton. But splendid, Burns. You're a true 
economist. 

(Enter Pine with butler's tray, on which are 
chicken and ham, bread and butter, cheese and 
biscuits, etc.) 



20 PASSERS-BY 

Burns. (Taking a corkscrew from his pocket) 
'Ere, mister, see this corkscrew? (He hands the 
corkscrew to Waverton and restores to his pocket 
many miscellaneous articles that have come out 
of it. Waverton gravely examines corkscrew, 
then, concealing a smile ) 

Waverton. It's a well-made corkscrew, Burns, 
but unfortunately it seems to be broken. 

Burns. (Eagerly taking the corkscrew back and 
restoring it to his pocket) Broken, mister, as you 
observe, but it'll come in 'andy. I've carried that 
corkscrew for two years now. 

Waverton. You see, Pine, Mr. Burns has the 
true instincts of the collector, and is as thrifty as a 
Frenchman. He's full of qualities. 

Pine. It's 'orrible! 

Waverton. (Pointing to Burns' breast-pocket ) 
That's a particularly prosperous-looking pocket you 
have there. 

Burns. (With a sly look) That's a bit I saved 
in case I 'ad no luck for supper. Like to see it, 
mister ? 

Waverton. (Hastily) No, I think I'd rather 
not, Burns. (The front door bell is heard ringing. 
Exit Pine r.ieJ Ah! here comes Nighty. Come 
and take your place at the table. Damme, I like 
you ! This will do nicely. (He places a chair at the 
table facing audience. Burns rises, goes tb Wav- 
erton, stoops and puts his cap under the chair in- 
dicated, which he then occupies. During the fol- 
lowing he patiently sits and awaits the turn of af- 
fairs. The door opens, and Pine enters showing in 
Nighty) 

Pine. It's Nighty, sir. 

Waverton. Good ! Glasses, Pine. 

Pine. Yes, sir. (Crosses up to sideboard and 
gets glasses) 

Waverton. (Shakes hands with Nighty, then 



PASSERS-BY 21 

takes him ~l.) It's very good of you to come back, 
Nighty, just to give me a chance of showing that I 
am not such a surly fellow as you may have 
thought. 

Nighty. Not at all, guv'nor. Me and my old 
'orse was just thinkin' of makin' our way 'ome. 
It's gettin' very thick outside. 

Waverton. I insist on engaging you and your 
old horse by the hour. (In a lower voice) I want 
you to help me entertain that poor devil over there. 

Nighty. With pleasure, guv'nor. 

Waverton. (Gaily) Good! And so to supper. 
(He goes to table) Will you sit there, Nighty? 
(Pointing to a chair l.cJ 

Nighty. Thank you kindly, guv'nor, I 'ad my 
supper at the shelter; but I'll 'elp Mr. Pine to wait. 

Waverton. Capital ! — and help yourself to 
whisky. (Crosses to fire-place and throws cigarette 
in fire) 

Nighty. (Going up to Pine, r. Aside to him) 
I thought you said he wasn't human ? 

Pine. I think he's gone dotty. 

Waverton. (Crosses r. and sits r. of table) 
Ask Mr. Burns what he'll drink, Nighty. ('Nighty 
bends down and speaks aside to Burns. Burns 
replies. Then Nighty raises his head, his face 
quivering with suppressed laughter) Well? 

Nighty. He says he could do wiv a drop of 
four 'alf, guv'nor. 

Waverton. (Inquiringly) "Four 'alf"? 

Nighty. It's a kind of beer, sir. 

Waverton. Pine, beer for Mr. Burns. 

Pine. Yes, sir. (Exit r.2e. 

Waverton. Do have some butter, Burns. 
( Nighty, noticing that Burns is not very expert at 
the table, butters a large piece of bread for him) 

Nighty. (Putting the bread and butter on 
Burns' plate) There, that's hearty ! (Seeing that 



22 PASSERS-BY 

Burns is employing his fingers with his chicken, 
Nighty puts the knife and fork on his plate as a 
reminder. Then nudges him) 

Waverton. It's all right, Nighty. Mr. Burns 
prefers the Oriental method, and I'm not sure that 
it isn't the better one. (Eats biscuit) I'm as hun- 
gry as a hunter. (He says this to encourage Burns,) 

(Enter Pine with beer. He fills Burns' glass) 

Nighty. It's the nippy air does it, guv'nor. 

Waverton. Sorry you won't join us. (Motions 
Nighty to chair r.cJ 

Nighty. (Sits) I've just had a reg-lar tuck in 
of eggs and bacon — prime stuff! 

Waverton. You find life worth living, Nighty? 

Nighty. (Seriously) It's a wonderful gift is 
life! (He sits a little away from table) 

Waverton. (Mixes whisky and soda) But come 
now — honestly — if you had had the choice of living 
or not living, and could have foreseen all you have 
gone through — you'd have refused? 

Nighty. Honestly I shouldn't, guv'nor. - 

Waverton. And you, Burns? 

Burns. I never refuse anything, I don't ! I 
make it a rule ! 

Waverton. (Looks up with a smile at Pine, who 
shudders and turns away) Pine, give Mr. Nighty 
some whisky. (Pine does so. Raising his glass) 
Gentlemen, your health ! I drink to my new friends. 

Nighty. Here's to you, guv'nor. (Drinks) 

Waverton. Burns, you're a great man ; you eat 
well, and I hope you sleep well. 

Burns. Not always, mister. The other night I 
dreamt I was choppin' wood. 

Nighty. (To Burns J Work isn't much in your 
way. 

Burns. I ain't strong. 



PASSERS-BY 23 

Nighty. Wasn't your father a workman? 

Burns. No, mate. 'E had something the matter 
with 'is chest. 'Ow 'e used ter corf ! My ! 

Waverton. And your mother? 

Burns. She's dead, too. She was always ailin'. 
'Ip disease they called it. (He drinks) 

Nighty. (Aside to Waverton,) Lord! They 
breed dogs better. 

Waverton. (Nods. To Burns, sympathetically 
in a low voice) And then there was only you? 

Burns. (As if dimly remembering ) Yes, only 
me. I was abart eleven then, and sickly. I started 
walking. I was always pretty all right on me pins. 
(He is quite unconscious of the pathos of this. 
There is silence for a fezv moments. Waverton 
and Nighty exchange looks) Well, cheero ! (He 
drinks his beer and goes on eating. Waverton rises 
and crosses l. for the cigars, which he gets from 
drawer in cabinet) 

Waverton. You're something of a politician, 
Nighty. 

Nighty. Oh, I wouldn't say that, guv'nor. 

Waverton. A thinker then — you have ideas! 

Nighty. Us old 'orse cabmen has lots o' time 
for thinking in these days o' taxis and the like. 

Waverton. (Gives the box to Pine ) • Pine, 
cigars for Mr. Nighty and Mr. Burns. (Pine of- 
fers the box to Nighty,) 

Nighty. No, thank you, Mr. Pine. (Pine, with 
an air of grave disapproval, offers the box to 
Burns,) 

Burns. (Hesitating) Wot, me? My! (He 
takes cigar and then from his pocket a piece of 
paper — he rolls up the cigar and puts the parcel 
back in his pocket. Pine puts cigars azvay on side- 
board) 

Waverton. (Sits l.c. Encouragingly ) Well, 
about your ideas, Nighty? 



24 PASSERS-BY 

Nighty. (Confused) Oh, I ain't got many, 
guv'nor, but if I'd been a rich man and educated I 
think I'd 'a gone into Parliament ! (Laughs) Me, 
a Member of Parliament ! I got a cheek, 'aven't I ? 
(He is slightly "mellow" with the whisky he has 
drunk. Pine gathers supper things together on 
tray) 

Waverton. I'm sure we've many less intelligent, 
Nighty. 

Nighty. Sometimes driving 'ome I make a 
speech out loud, and my old 'orse's ears go flop-flop 
until I think he understands and is trying to say 
"'ear! 'ear!" (Exit Pine with tray, r.2e. 

Waverton. Capital ! And what do you say, 
Nighty ? 

Nighty. (Very confused) Oh, come guv'nor, 
I couldn't. 

Waverton. Get along. You're all right, 
Nighty. We're all tiled in here. 

Nighty. (Smiling and wriggling) But really, 
guv'nor — — ( Burns makes a parcel of bread, 
celery, etc.) 

Waverton. I want to hear your views. (Beck- 
ons him) 

Nighty. (Drazvs chair close up to Waverton ) 
My vftws? That's easy, guv'nor. Every child 
born, boy, is entitled in abundance to the air, light 
and water that Nature provides. (He taps Waver- 
ton familiarly on the knee) It's the duty of the 
State to see the children ain't done out of their 
rights. Then again, the State demands children in 
quantity — very well, it's the duty of the State to see 
that the quality's all right. Every child is entitled 
to 'ealthy parents. A 'uman incapable — ('Waver- 
ton raises a warning finger) Yes, poor bloke ! It 
ain't 'is fault. The thing is, don't breed 'em like 
that! The future of the race is with the children. 
Legislate for the children. 



PASSERS-BY 25 

Waverton. Bravo, Nighty. (They grasp his 
hand) You're a Statesman. 

Nighty. (Confused) Thank you, guv'nor. 

Burns. (Gets cap from under the chair. Rises, 
and goes dozvn l. of table r.) Well, good night all ! 

Waverton. But you're not leaving us so soon, 
Burns. 

(Enter Pine, r.2eJ 

Burns. I want to get along to the Embank- 
ment. I never miss the Embankment when I'm in 
London. There's always a bit of life there, and 
sometimes they give you things. 

Waverton. Every class has its social centre, 
you see, Nighty. One moment, Burns. Pine ! 

Pine. Yes, sir? 

Waverton. One of my old overcoats for Mr. 
Burns — a warm one. 

Pine. (Making a wry face) Yes, sir. 

(Exit r.ie., leaving door open. 

Waverton. (Walks to the windozu) It's ter- 
ribly black out there, Burns. You'll never find 
your way. (The fog outside has grown to be dense 
black) 

Burns. I'd find my way blindfold to the Em- 
bankment. 

Nighty. (Goes to window and looks out anxi- 
ously ) Me an' my old 'orse'll 'ave all our work 
cut out gettin' to Kensington. 

Waverton. (Up c.) That reminds me, you 
and your old horse are mine to-night. (He presses 
a coin on him) 

Nighty. No, really guv'nor — I 

Waverton. Please! (Enter Pine with over- 
coat. Waverton joins him down r., and takes coat 
from him, then exit Pine — leaves door open) Now, 
Burns, let me help you with your coat. 



26 PASSERS-BY 

Burns. Oh, I say! 

Waverton. (Helping Burns on with the coat) 
Just to keep the cold out. 

Burns. (Admiring himself in the overcoat) 
My ! ("Waverton presses a coin into Burns' hand. 
Burns looks at it and even his remote heart seems 
vaguely touched) 

Waverton. (To avoid being thanked, speaks 
quickly, shakes hands with Burns ) Good night. 

Burns. Good night! Thanks, all! 

Waverton. Come and see me again whenever 
things are bad. Remember you have a friend here. 
Good night. 

Burns. (Goes to the door. He is then visited 
by an impulse and he turns to Waverton ) Good 
luck, mister! (Exit Burns r.ie. 

Nighty. (Crosses down r. below table. At 
door) Good night, Guv'nor. God bless you ! 

Waverton. Thank you, Nighty, and look in 
sometimes and see if I have a job for you, remem- 
ber we're neighbours. Good night. (Exit Nighty 
— shuts door. The smile dies out of Waverton's 
face. He walks to window, looks out and shivers. 
He comes down to his writing-table, sits, and looks 
over some papers. Enter Pine r.2E. Folds cloth 
and puts in drawer in table. Without looking up) 
The people who are at home to-night are lucky, 
Pine. 

Pine. Yes, sir. It's dangerous to be abroad. 
Can't see your hand in front of your face. (Pause) 
The young person standing in the doorway seems 
frightened out of 'er life. 

Waverton. (Quickly) What young person? 

Pine. Young woman, sir. Respectable, I fancy. 
Came out of a 'bus that was on the pavement just 
now — going the wrong way and frightened to turn. 
She's coughing something dreadful — fog's got into 
her chest, I suppose. 



PASSERS-BY 27 

Waverton. You should have asked her in. It's 
a frightful night for a woman to be out alone. Go 
and . . . Wait, I'll go myself! (Exit r.ie. Pine 
puts chairs tidy. He goes to the open door and lis- 
tens, then exit R.2EJ 

A woman's coughing is heard. It approaches. 
Enter Waverton and Margaret Summers. 
She is a slender woman of twenty-five, a little 
above medium height. The plainness of her 
dress fails to conceal the attractiveness of her 
figure; she has a beautiful face and wears a 
proud and reserved expression. Her face is not 
seen on her entrance, however, as she is wear- 
ing a hat that comes over her eyes and a thick 
veil. She continues to cough painfully after 
entering. Waverton shuts door at entrance. 
He quickly gets her a glass of water from the 
sideboard. Margaret lifts her veil sufficiently 
to drink. 

Waverton. (Pulls chair out r. of table. Gently) 
Do sit down. ( Margaret sits and breathes heavily, 
but ceases to cough. Pause. Margaret sighs 
deeply) You are a little better? 

Margaret. Yes — thank you. ('Waverton starts 
on hearing her voice and looks at her keenly. She 
lowers her head) I am all right. I will go now. 
(She coughs slightly, then rises) 

Waverton. No, no — you must rest for a mo- 
ment! That abominable fog got into your lungs. 
It's poisonous ! 

Margaret. I would rather go now — please. 
(Goes l. a little) 

Waverton. Wait ! wait ! You can't go out into 
that — (pointing through window) London blind- 
fold! Appalling thought! The monster sightless! 
You can hear him growling. 



28 PASSERS-BY 

Margaret. I'm not frightened ! I'm going — 
really — I know my way. Thank you for your kind- 
ness. Good night ! (He goes down quickly be- 
tween her and the door, intercepting her. She falls 
back, so that they are some paces apart. There is 
a slight pause. They stand looking at each other. 
Her breast heaving) Why? 

Waverton. (By door r.ieJ You and I can't 
part like this ! 

Margaret. (Down r.) We must. 

Waverton. (In a low voice) Let me see your 
face. 

Margaret. No. 

Waverton. I ask it with — with the deepest re- 
spect. 

Margaret. I don't want you to see my face. 

Waverton. I know your face — as well as you 
know mine. 

Margaret. Please let me go now — for — for 
both our sakes. (Slight pause) 

Waverton. You are right. When a woman 
wishes to conceal something a man can only — (He 
walks to the door) 

Margaret. Conceal? (At the suggestion of 
concealment, she starts with indignation. Then she 
impulsively raises her veil and pushes her hat 
slightly back, fully revealing her face. Waverton, 
with his hand on the doorknob, turns and sees 
her) 

Waverton. (In a low voice) Margaret ! Mar- 
garet Summers! Did you imagine for a moment 
that I wouldn't know you? 

Margaret. (Her breast heaving) I — I hoped 
not. 

Waverton. You knew me? 

Margaret. Directly I heard your voice down- 
stairs. I wouldn't have come up, only I feared the 
fog would kill me, and — and I don't want to die. 



PASSERS-BY 29 

Waverton. But why — in God's name, Mar- 
garet, why wish to avoid me? (Slight pause — She 
is silent) After six years. Why? (Impatiently) 
Why? 

Margaret. I knew you didn't want to see me. 

Waverton. (Down rJ But I did. Good 
Heavens ! how you wrong me. I advertised for you 
— I employed agents to look for you for months — 
years — and you tell me now — Please sit down. 

Margaret. I — I want to go now. 

Waverton. (Firmly) I beg you to do as I ask. 
You are still faint and ill. (She sits chair l. of 
table r.) Now, tell me, why did you leave my step- 
sister's house? 

Margaret. She turned me away. 

Waverton. (Surprised and shocked) She 
turned you away ? 

Margaret. Yes. 

Waverton. (Sits R. of table R.j She told me 
you were called away — that you had been engaged 
to a place abroad. 

Margaret. It wasn't true. 

Waverton. You mean she lied. She would! 
But for a time I believed her. Then I began to 
doubt, for I grew to know her better. 

Margaret. I have no right to speak unkindly 
of Lady Hurley. 

Waverton. I have. What excuse did she give? 

Margaret. None. She said I would under- 
stand. 

Waverton. (After a slight pause) She had 
been spying on us. 

Margaret. Possibly, and in the circumstances 
she didn't consider me a proper governess for her 
children. (Movement from Waverton J Any 
other mother would have done the same. 

Waverton. She shouldn't have lied to me. 

Margaret. She thought it her duty. 



30 PASSERS-BY 

Waverton. She must have known the fault was 
all mine. 

Margaret. No, Peter — it was ours. 

Waverton. All mine — for I was two years 
older and should have been wiser. But I was in 
love and thoughtless, Margaret. 

Margaret. ( Laying r. hand on muff) We were 
both in love and thoughtless, Peter. 

Waverton. (In a low voice) And the Spring 
was in our hearts. (He takes her r. hand) Mar- 
garet ! 

Margaret. Don't! I have a work-woman's 
hands now. (She withdraws her hand) 

Waverton. Why didn't you write to me ? Why 
didn't you give me a chance? 

Margaret. I wrote to you — twice. 

Waverton. (Startled) How do you mean — you 
wrote to me? 

Margaret. The first time I gave a post-office 
address — the second time the lodgings I am still in. 

Waverton. You're sure of this? 

Margaret. Absolutely ! 

Waverton. (Rises slowly) Margaret, I never 
had your letters. (There is a pause, while they both 
look at each other) 

Margaret. (Rises) I addressed them to your 
sister's house. 

Waverton. Then . . . then . . . it's horrible! 
Amelia, my step-sister, must have 

Margaret. (Quietly) You mustn't say it. It 
isn't fair ; letters sometimes get lost in the post. 

Waverton. That woman! I've forgiven her 
much. This I'll never forgive. 

Margaret. She did what she thought right. 

Waverton. And you never knew of my in- 
quiries ? 

Margaret. No. It's so easy to be lost in Lon- 
don. 



PASSERS-BY 31 

Waverton. Margaret ! My poor Margaret ! 

Margaret. Naturally, Lady Hurley gave me no 
reference. I had no chance of getting another place, 
and I had no relation living. (Movement from 
Waverton ) I do sewing for the shops now ; have 
done for a long time. I make seven shillings a 
day. 

Waverton. You are wonderful! 

Margaret. Oh, no ! I couldn't have done it for 

myself. 

Waverton. (Slowly) There was some one else ? 
Margaret. (Slowly ) Yes — there — there 
was (Then pathetically) Oh, let me go- 
please let me go now! I'm not strong enough to 

bear any more 

Waverton. (r. of table, R.j Tell me— be frank 
— who else was there? 

Margaret, (l. corner of table r., slowly) There 
was — the child. 

Waverton. The child? Your child? 
Margaret. Yes. 

Waverton. Oh, then you're 

Margaret. Our child, Peter. 
Waverton. Our child? 
Margaret. Yes — a little boy. 
Waverton. (In a low voice) Margaret! 
Margaret. (Suffering, goes l. to fireplace, then 
goes round sofa and works up l. and round to c.) 
You shouldn't have made me tell you. It hurts. 
And you needn't be embarrassed for me, Peter. 
I'm not ashamed, and I've no remorse. He's my 
child. I've won him, and he's mine only. He needs 
no one but me, and he— he's the very breath of my 
heart. And now forget — please forget that I've told 
you. It's been strange and wonderful seeing you 

again — but (c.) 

Waverton. (l. of table R.J Wait, Margaret! 
You don't understand — I'm not embarrassed — only 



32 PASSERS-BY 

— only full of wonder. I want you to tell me so 
much more. What is the boy's name? 

Margaret. Peter. 

Waverton. (Visibly touched) Peter? (Goes 
up r. to l.) Look at it out there ; it's awful ! (Slight 
pause) Where is the boy now? 

Margaret. (Dozvn by table r.c.J He's at home 
with my landlady. She always puts him to bed 
when I work late. 

Waverton. (Comes down l.c.J Margaret, I — I 
don't know what to say. If I seem awkward and 
shy, you must try and understand — and forgive me. 
I can't realise in a moment all that this means — the 
change it makes in one's sympathies and view of 
life. (Margaret coughs. He walks to bell and 
rings, then says firmly) One thing is certain, you 
can't go out into that fog. 

Margaret. Peter, I must. I must go home. 

Waverton. (Firmly) It's a practical impossi- 
bility — besides, you're as pale as a ghost. 

Margaret. (Faintly) I — I'm all right, Peter. 

Waverton. I know better. If I can't think for 
myself, at least I can think for you. (Gently forces 
her into chair r.cJ 

(Enter Pine r.2eJ 

Waverton. (To Pine J Make me a shakedown 

on the sofa and bring a dressing suit. 
Pine. Yes, sir. (Crosses l. up stage) 
Waverton. And Pine. (Pine stops) Has Mrs. 

Parker gone to bed? 
Pine. Not yet, sir. 
Waverton. Send her to me. 
Pine. Yes, sir. (Exit Pine 

Margaret. I'm really all right now — and 

Waverton. (Thoroughly himself now, and 

speaking with decision) You are not going out into 



PASSERS-BY 33 

that fog to-night. You are going to have my room. 
Fortunately there's a woman in the house — my old 
cook-housekeeper. (Goes L.j She will look after 
you in the morning. 

Margaret. (Rises) I mustn't stay, Peter — I'm 
so tired I should sleep late. 

(Warn curtain) 

Waverton. (Cheerily) So much the better. 

(Enter Mrs. Parker r. up) 

Waverton. Mrs. Parker, I'm going to have a 
shake-down here to-night. This lady who has 
been caught in the fog will have my room. You'll 
see that she's comfortable, please. 

Mrs. Parker. Yes, sir. 

(Exit Mrs. Parker, l. 

Margaret. But my landlady and the child would 
be alarmed. 

Waverton. True, you must write a message. 
(Up to window and looks out) You see it's hope- 
less. ( Margaret goes to zvindow and looks out. 
Goes to desk) It shall be sent first thing in the 
morning. (She sits at writing '-table. He arranges 
paper for her to write and discreetly walks azvay to 
c. Pause. He is thoughtful) Let me see — the 
boy must now be ? 

Margaret. Six next April. 

Waverton. (Still cheerfully) Six next April! 
Six next April ! (Enter Pine l. with the things or- 
dered, which he spreads on couch. Margaret has 
now finished writing. Waverton goes to her. She 
hands him the message. To Pine, handing him 
telegram) This must go the very first thing in the 
morning. 

Pine. Yes, sir. ( Margaret rises, goes to piano, 
and picks up her hat) 

Waverton. If the fog has lifted send it by a 



34 PASSERS-BY 

taxi. If not telegraph it through the telephone. 

Pine. Yes sir. 

Waverton. (To Margaret ) That door on the 
left where the light is. Get some sleep — you need 
it. To-morrow we'll talk. ( Margaret looks oat of 
window through curtains in a last hope that the fog 
has cleared) 

Margaret. (Faintly) Thank you, Peter — Good 
night ! 

Waverton. (Taking her hand) Bless you. 
Good night ! (Exit Margaret, l. 

Pine. Anything else, sir? 

Waverton. Yes — another log. ('Pine pats log 
on fire, then goes round top of writing-table to c.) 

Pine. Good night, sir. 

Waverton. (Mechanically) Good night, Pine. 
(He is deep in thought. Exit Pine, r.2e. Waver- 
ton goes over r. and switches off electric light ; then 
goes l. to fireplace and takes a cigarette case from 
his pocket. Finding it empty, however, he takes a 
cigarette from a silver box on the writing-table, and 
is about to light it when he notices the framed photo- 
graph of Beatrice, which is also on the table. He 
takes it up and looks at it thoughtfully while he re- 
clines on the sofa; then he gently replaces it on the 
writing-table and sinks into a deep meditation. The 
stage is now lighted only by the red glow from the 
fire. 

curtain 



ACT II 

Scene : Same as Act I. 

It is nine o'clock on the following morning. 

On the curtain rising the room is in a dim light. 

Waverton is asleep on the improvised bed. 

A slight pause after the curtain is raised; then 

a ringing and knocking at the hall door is heard. 

Waverton is disturbed. He raises himself on 

his elbow. 

Waverton. What the devil ? (He listens. 

The distant sounds of a door being opened and shut 
and of voices are heard. Then there is silence. 
Waverton turns over as if to sleep again. The 
door is cautiously and silently opened and enter 
Pine, r.ie., with letters which he places on writ- 
ing-table) 

Pine. (In a low voice) Are you still asleep, sir? 

Waverton. Yes. What is it? 

Pine. It's as I feared, sir. I 'ad a foreboding — 
also a dream. 

Waverton. (Sitting up and speaking crossly) 
Pine, if you are to stay on with me you must dis- 
courage fears, forebodings and dreams. 

Pine. Very good, sir. 

Waverton. (With a huge yawn) You know 
very well the morning isn't my best time. Now, out 
with it! What's the matter? (With anxiety) 
Mrs. Summers hasn't gone? 

Pine. No, sir. It's that 'orrible man again. 

Waverton. What horrible man? 

Pine. (r. end of sofa) Burns, sir. 

Waverton. You must also learn to speak re- 
spectfully of my friends. 

Pine. Yes, sir. 

35 



36 PASSERS-BY 

Waverton. What does Mr. Burns want at this 
hour of the morning? (Looks at clock on mantel) 
Breakfast, I suppose. 

Pine. He was brought by a policeman, sir. 

Waverton. A policeman? This is serious. 

Pine. I knew you'd be disappointed in him, sir. 

Waverton. What's he been doing? 

Pine. He's been getting himself hurt, sir. 

Waverton. Hurt? Poor old Burns ! Draw up 
the blinds. ('Pine does so, revealing a bright winter 
morning. Waverton gets out of bed, still wearing 
his dressing-suit, and puts on his slippers) Is he 
badly hurt? 

Pine. He can walk all right, sir. (Sarcastic- 
ally) He was always good on his pins. 

Waverton. Yes — I remember. Bring him in. 

Pine. And the policeman too, sir? 

Waverton. No. Give him half a crown and 
send him away. Damn it ! This isn't a public in- 
stitution. 

Pine. (Going down r. and speaking "half 
aloud" ) It seems to appertain to that nature. 

Waverton. (Sharply) What's that? 

Pine. (Unblushing) I was saying I'm sorry 
your privacy should be disturbed, sir. 

Waverton. That's my affair. (Exit Pine, r.ie. 
Waverton goes to the window, throws it open and 
breathes deeply of the fresh air. Distant noise of 
traffic, and door being closed. Waverton closes 
window. Enter Burns and Pine, r.ie. Pine closes 
door. Comes down quickly) Ah, Burns, my poor 
fellow, what can I do for you ? 

Burns. (With some insistence) You sa^ to 
me, you say, "Come an' see me again," you say. 
"W'en things is bad." 

Waverton. My very words. You will notice 
another quality in Mr. Burns, Pine; he has an ex- 
cellent memory. 



PASSERS-BY 37 

Burns, (r.) Things is bad, so I come. (He 
points to Tine) That gent 'e tries to stop me at the 
door. (This a little vindictively) Ts words was 
"It's a bit too thick!" 

Waverton. (By chair l.c. sternly) Pine ! 

Pine. (Down r.) I 'adn't understood the invi- 
tation was to be considered serious, sir. 

Waverton. Is it true you are hurt, Burns? 

Burns. I was run over in the fog by a milk cart, 
mister — leastways knocked down. 

Waverton. My poor fellow — sit down ! That 
chair, Pine. (Pine crosses behind table r. and gives 
Burns a chair. Burns sits r.c. Waverton lights 
a cigarette) 

Pine. (Behind table r. in a low voice to Burns ) 
Your cap! 

Burns. (Who has apparently grown to recipro- 
cate Pine's dislike) Oh blow ! (He removes his 
cap, however) 

Waverton. (Going to Burns ) Any bones 
broken ? 

Burns. I didn't 'ear anything, but me side 'urts 
me — urts me bad — 'ere. (Indicating his left side) 

Waverton. Ah, I see the mark on your over- 
coat, where the wheel struck you. Poor fellow ! 
(Cheerily) Well, we must get you along to the 
hospital. 

Burns. (Alarmed) 'Orspital ! Not me ! That's 
what the cop say w'en 'e foun' me restin' on a door- 
step. I don't 'old with 'orspitals. I've 'eard tales 
about 'em. They're not well spoke of. (Pause. 
Waverton is in a grave difficulty, goes up l.c. a 
little. Pine rather pleased, watches him. Anxious- 
ly and with emphasis) You say to me, you say 
"Come an' see me agin" you say 

Waverton. (Turning and interrupting him and 
only by an effort subduing his impatience) Yes, 
yes — I have a vivid recollection. (Pine's face 



38 PASSERS-BY 

breaks' fully into a smile. He can scarcely hdld 
back his laughter. Waverton looks up and catches 
him. Pine covers his grinning mouth with his 
hand. Icily) Pine, (Motions to him and they go 
down l.J you appear to be in pain. 

Pine. (Composing himself) It was nothing, sir, 
just a spasm. 

Waverton. When you have recovered from 
your spasm you will take charge of Mr. Burns. 

Pine. (Flabbergasted) Me — take charge? Ex- 
cuse me, sir, but 

Waverton. (Down l. turning his face from 
Pine to conceal a smile) I'm disappointed in you, 
Pine. I thought you a philanthropist ; but it appears 
you are only one of those who would probe the 
wounds of the afflicted with inquisitive fingers, and 
do nothing to heal them. 

Pine. (l.c.) Oh, I'm all for the poor, sir, in rea- 
son ; but this one's an exception. There's some- 
thing h'ominous about him. 

Waverton. Well, he's now a protege of the 
house, and he's been hurt, so I recommend him to 
your care. (Crosses up to r.) 

Pine. (Eagerly) Shall I get your things, sir? 

Waverton. (Going to door, R.2E.J No ; I'll man- 
age by myself. You stay here and take care of Mr. 
Burns. Ring up Dr. Wharton and ask him to come 
round at once. (To Burns cheerily) You're all 
right, Burns, Pine'll look after you. (Exit Waver- 
ton, r.2e. Pine looks at Burns and Burns looks 
at Pine. There is no friendship in their eyes) 

Pine. This is what comes of doing a kindness. 

Burns. 'Oo did a kindness? 

Pine. Who got your supper last night? 

Burns. 'Oo lost me the Embankment? 

Pine. Bah ! You make me shiver. (He goes 
to telephone) 

Burns. An' got me 'urt ! 



PASSERS-BY 39 

Pine. Don't talk to me! 

Burns. 'Is words to you was: "Take care of 
Mr. Burns." 

Pine. (Ignoring this — takes receiver) Seven, 
three, double five, one, Gerrard. (Pause) 

Burns. (As one who has certain established 
rights) I could do with a cup o' corfie. 

Pine. (Into telephone) Could I speak to Dr. 
Wharton, please? . . . All right. (Pause) 

Burns. (With insistence) I could do with a 
cup o' corfie. 

Pine. (Entirely ignoring Burns and using his 
best voice) Is that you, Dr. Wharton ? Mr. Wav- 
erton wishes me to present his compliments, and to 
ask if you would kindly come round as soon as pos- 
sible. (Pause) Oh, no, thank you, sir, Mr. Wav- 
erton is in perfect health, but there is a person who 
has received some slight hinjury in a street h'acci- 
dent. A sort of man in a manner o' speakin'. 
Thank you, sir ! (Replaces receiver and begins to 
fold bedclothes) 

Burns. If you 'adn't stopped me I'd a' got to 
the Embankment and then to the "Salvation Shel- 
ter." I'd a' been drinkin' a nice cup o' corfie by 
now — 'ot. 

Pine. And been put on a couple of hours' hard 
work afterwards. 

Burns. (Quickly) That's where you're wrong, 
see? I'd a' been let off 'cos o' bein' delicate. 
(Slight pause) You've been unlucky to me. 

Pine. (Goes c. and up to Burns with rug over 
his arm) I suppose, my good man, you've never 
heard the word "gratitude" used, have you? 

Burns. I'm no scollard. 

Pine. (Looking down at him with deliberate 
pity) I gathered as much. I understand your case. 
I think I've 'eard it called arrested mental develop- 
ment. 



4 PASSERS-BY 

Burns. Is that Latting? 

Pine. It means a kind of smear. (He is going 
l. with the rug, zvhen enter Margaret l., fully 
dressed for going away) 

Margaret. (Up l. to Pine,) Good morning! 

Pine. (Up c.) Good morning, ma'am. 

Margaret. Will you please tell Mr. Waver- 
ton 

Pine. He'll be here in a few moments, ma'am. 

Margaret. (Anxious) Did my message go? 

Pine. Yes, ma'am, at seven o'clock. 

Margaret. You're sure? 

Pine. Yes, ma'am. 

Margaret. (Relieved) Thank you. (Then she 
sees Burns,) 

Pine. This person has been in a street h'acci- 
dent. 

Burns. I been hurt. 

Margaret. ( The mother instinct to the surface) 
Oh, you poor fellow. What happened? (Goes to 
him) 

Burns. It was a big 'orse an' cart. (He puts 
his hand to his side) 

Margaret. And you're hurt in the side and 
there's a wound on your forehead. (Turns quickly 
to Pine,) Do bring some warm water and a towel. 
(Puts muff and gloves on writing-table ) 

Pine. (With mock commiseration) Certainly, 
miss. Poor chap! (Exit Pine l. 

Burns. I could do with a cup o' corfie. 

Margaret. Of course, you shall have it. I'm 
sure that Mr. Waverton 

Burns. That's the other one, ain't it? 

Margaret. He's the gentleman of the house. 

Burns. 'E's all right; it's this one that's agin 
me. 

Margaret. Oh, nonsense! No one's against 
you. I'm sure everybody must be sorry for you. 



PASSERS-BY 41 

Burns. (Resentfully ) The one that's gone for 
the water (Pine enters l. with a basin and small 
towel) tried to stop me comin' in. 'Im! (Pointing 
to Pine. Margaret takes basin and towel from 
Pine and puts them on table r. She then dips towel 
in water and attends to bruise on Burns' forehead) 

Pine. (Standing by with affected sympathy) 
Poor chap! 

Margaret. (To PineJ Do you think you could 
manage to get him a cup of coffee? 

Pine. Yes, miss. (With ill-concealed sarcasm) 
He's to have everything he wants. Is there any- 
thing else you fancy, my poor man? 

Burns. A slice o' bread and butter — thick. 

Pine. (Affecting the sick room manner and em- 
ploying a low and pleasant voice) It shall have hat- 
tention. (He tiptoes down r. behind table) The 
doctor'll be here presently, miss. (The hall door 
bell is heard. Exit Pine r.ie. closing door) 

Margaret, (r. of Burns ) Is that better? 

Burns. It's abart the same. 

Margaret. It's a pity your hair is so thick. 

Burns. It's always been like that. 

Margaret. But I think it would look nicer if it 
was cut a little shorter. 

Burns. I don't 'old with making changes. 

Margaret. Well, of course, it's your hair. 

Burns. (Uncompromisingly ) Yes, it's my 'air. 

(Enter Pine and Nighty r.ie. Nighty has made 
his top hat very shiny, and has a new pair of 
yellow gloves. Exit Pine r.2e. Nighty shuts 
door r.ie. behind him) 



Nighty. Good morning, Miss! 
Margaret. Good morning! 
Nighty. Good morning, Burns! 
Burns. Mornin' ! 



42 PASSERS-BY 

Nighty. (Down r.) Sorry to 'ear you've been 
in trouble. 
(Enter Pine R.2E. with coffee and bread and butter) 

Burns. I'd a been all right if that bloke 'adn't 
stopped me goin' to the Embankment. 

Margaret. (Taking coffee, etc., from PineJ 
Here's your cup of coffee, Mr. Burns. (Smiling, 
aside to Nighty J I think he's more wounded in 
spirit than body. (Gives Pine basin, etc.) 

Nighty. (Taking Pine aside r.) Hadn't I bet- 
ter wait outside? (Margaret goes to desk for muff 
and gloves, then up to window) 

Pine. Lord, no ! (Bitterly) This is no longer 
a gentleman's home ; it's "come one, come all" as 
you might say. — You're all right, the guvnor's taken 
you to his heart. As for that Burns, he's his ewe 
lamb. I'm the only one to suffer, I'm put to take 
care of that. (Pointing scornfully at Burns,) 

Nighty. (Secretly amused) Bear up, Mr. Pine, 
bear up ! 

Pine. (Earnestly) Mark my words, Nighty 

(Enter Waverton r.2e. He sees Margaret first 
zvho is up L.c.J 

Waverton. Ah, Margaret, good morning. 

Margaret. (Shaking hands) Good morning. 

Waverton. (Down l.cJ Glad to see you've 
breakfasted, Burns. I haven't. Hello, Nighty, you 
are a swell. 

Nighty. (Down r., grinning) Thought I'd 
brush meself up a bit, in case you 'ad a job for me, 
guv'nor. 

Waverton. (Laughing) Oh, of course, you're 
on the staff now. I'll find you a job presentl>, but 
first we must get Burns on the big couch in the 
library. 

Nighty. (Going to Burns ) 'Ere, give me your 
arm. (He takes Burns by the arm and leads him 
up to door R.2.) Easy does it. 



PASSERS-BY 43 

Pine. (As they pass htm) Poor chap ! 

(Exit Burns and Nighty r.2e. 

Waverton. You telephoned to Dr. Wharton, 
Pine? 

Pine. Yes, sir, Vs coming. 

(Exit with basin R.2E. 

Waverton. (Goes up to door r.2e. and speaks 
off through door) Pine, Nighty had better bring 
his cab over and wait for Mrs. Summers. 

Pine. (Off) Very good, sir. ("Waverton shuts 
door r.2eJ 

Margaret. (Coming down) Good-bye, Peter. 

Waverton. Sit down, my dear. 

Margaret. I really must go now, Peter. I have 
my work to do. I only want to thank you first 
for 

Waverton. (Interrupting her) Ssh! Ssh ! 
(Takes her muff and wrap from her and places them 
on table r. She sits chair l.c. He is very thought- 
ful) Margaret, now that I've found you I want 
you to let me be a friend to you. 

Margaret. (Embarrassed ) But Peter — of 
course. 

Waverton. (l. of table r.) I want your per- 
mission to try and make up — a little — for all you 
have gone through. 

Margaret. You are very kind. But I have gone 
through nothing that hasn't been of good to me. 
You needn't trouble about us, Peter. (She smiles) 
We're in harbour, now. 

Waverton. You mean you and — and little 
Peter ? 

Margaret. (Still smiling) He and I are all 
right — and I am proud — perhaps too proud. Pride 
is my besetting sin, you know. 

Waverton. I know it is, and I'm a little fright- 
ened of it. But — but — you won't refuse to let me 
help you. (He says this pleadingly) 



44 PASSERS-BY 

Margaret. I — I think you must let me go on in 
my own way. 

Waverton. (Turning away from her and with 
a touch of disappointment in his voice) It's natural 
that you should take this attitude, but it makes me 
think you hate me and I — I don't quite deserve that. 
(Goes r. a little l. of table) 

Margaret. (Lifting her face suddenly brimming 
over with affection) Hate you! Oh, Peter! 
(Waverton turns back to her quickly) 

Waverton. Then if you don't hate me you'll let 
me help you with the boy. He'll need properly 
bringing up. 

Margaret. (Rather coldly) I'm doing my best, 
Peter. 

Waverton. (c.) I know — and you're an angel 
— but I can do so much too — in my way. I have the 
means and the leisure. A boy needs a man friend. 
And his best friend should be his father. 

Margaret. (Firmly) He's my boy, Peter. 

Waverton. (With equal firmness) He's our 
boy. (Their eyes meet — slight pause — Margaret 
rises) I want to see him. 

Margaret. (Distrustfully, unconsciously her 
hand on the photograph of Beatrice, which is on 
the desk against zvhich she stands) Oh, you shall 
see him ! But — but whom shall I tell him you are ? 
(Looking at him) 

Waverton. (Flushing slightly) Tell him — for 
the present — damn it, he's only a baby, tell 
him that I am his mother's and his own best 
friend. 

Margaret. (Picks up photograph) Very well, 
I'll tell him. 

Waverton. (Thoughtfully) And, Margaret — 
there's much to be considered. For one thing I 
really can't allow you to continue working — as you 
do. (Goes down r. a little) 



PASSERS-BY 45 

Margaret. (Quickly) Why not? 

Waverton. It's only fair and reasonable and 
just that I should 

Margaret. (In her embarrassment holding the 
photograph in both hands) Peter, I have two price- 
less things in the world — my child and my independ- 
ence. I shall cling desperately to them both. 

Waverton. (Gently, as he goes to her c.) My 
dear, can't you be generous and help me to win one 
priceless thing — my self-respect? Now do put that 
picture down and talk sense. (He stretches his 
hand for the photograph) 

Margaret. (Looking at the photograph before 
releasing it) What a pretty face! (Waverton 
takes photograph and glances at it) 

Waverton. Yes. (He is rather embarrassed) 
Perhaps — perhaps it would be best to tell you who 
it is. Her name is Beatrice Dainton. She is an 
orphan, and a niece of Lord Hurley. My sister 
chaperones her and — Beatrice and I are engaged. 
(He is not looking at Margaret when he makes this 
announcement. He goes round top of writing-table, 
replaces photograph, and then goes down to fire- 
place. Margaret starts and turns pale. The news 
given wounds her deeply, but she is determined not 
to show it. Waverton now speaks quickly, to 
cloak his embarrassment) Now let's get back to 
what we were saying, and do let me beg of you, my 
dear, to be sensible. 

Margaret. (Bravely holding her emotion in 
check and speaking rapidly, her back turned to him) 
I'm quite sensible, Peter, and nothing you can say 
will change my point of view. You may call it 
pride or a spirit of foolish independence — but — but 
there it is. We'll go our way and come out all 
right ; but our way — the way of my little boy and 
me — isn't your way, Peter — and though you mean 
to be kind and sweet — I know you do — (She sud- 



46 PASSERS-BY 

denly turns away to fight her emotion and walks 
to the piano) 

Waverton. (Looking after her wonderingly and 
going L.cJ Margaret! (There is a pause while 
Margaret recovers her self-control. Then she 
comes down, her face quite composed) 

Margaret, (c. In almost conventional tones) 
We must part now, Peter — thank you for all your 
kindness 

Waverton. (l.c.) I'm afraid I've said some- 
thing to hurt you. 

Margaret. (Perfectly self-possessed) Indeed 
no — I assure you. I was very interested about 
your engagement, because — because I, too, am en- 
gaged. 

Waverton. (Amazed and displeased) You — 
engaged ! 

Margaret. (Simply) Yes, Peter. (If Waver- 
ton were not angry he would suspect she is not 
speaking the truth) 

Waverton. To whom? 

Margaret. To a man — a man who is doing well 
in business. 

Waverton. What's his name? 

Margaret. Henry. 

Waverton. Henry what? 

Margaret. Henry — (the slightest hesitation 
while she invents the name) Henry Robinson. 

Waverton. (With a bad attempt at indifference) 
Oh, really ! 

Margaret. Yes. (She secretly gives him a side- 
long glance) 

Waverton. (Lamely) Seems a funny thing to 
do — to get engaged. 

Margaret. Why ? 

Waverton. Oh, well — one would have thought 
you would have waited. 

Margaret. For what Peter? 



PASSERS-BY 47 

Waverton. I mean I thought you had devoted 
your life to the boy. 

Margaret. Perhaps I did it for his sake. (There 
is a pause. Waverton fidgets about, frowning) 

Waverton. Well, I — I wish you joy — with all 
my heart. 

Margaret. As I do you, Peter. (Slight pause. 
Suddenly she offers him her hand frankly) Good- 
bye. 

Waverton. (Taking her hand) You'll bring the 
boy to see me — now — this morning. Nighty can 
wait for you. 

Margaret. (Withdrawing her hand) It's so 
useless. It can lead to nothing good, and might 
make the child dissatisfied. (Picks up her muff and 
wrap from table r.) 

Waverton.' (Disappointed) All right, Margaret 
— only — I don't like to talk of it — it makes me so 
self-conscious — this youngster of yours — I should 
have liked to see him — liked it very much. (Goes 
up c. facing tip. A movement towards him by Mar- 
garet; then she restrains herself. Pause — Waver- 
ton leans against piano, a sly smile suddenly lights 
his face, but he doesn't let her see it. Margaret 
goes to door r.) You needn't fear my being disap- 
pointed if the boy happens to be plain, Margaret. 

Margaret. (Comes l. a little, indignant) Plain ! 
Peter plain ! 

Waverton. (Comes down c.) Children some- 
times improve, and after all "handsome is as hand- 
some does " 

Margaret. (With much indignation) Peter 
plain! He's a perfectly beautiful child. 

Waverton. (Calmly) Ah, a mother would nat- 
urally- 



Margaret. (Going quickly to door) You shall 
see for yourself. I'll be about twenty minutes. 

(Exit Margaret quickly r.ie. 



48 PASSERS-BY 

Waverton. (Calling after her through door) 
Very well. I'll wait for you. (The outer door clos- 
ing is heard. He closes door r.ie. and goes quickly 
to window and looks out and down into the street, 
watching Nighty's cab start. Then he comes down 
to writing-table and begins to open his letters. En- 
ter Pine r.2e. with breakfast tray, which he puts on 
a table r. Sits at writing-table ) Give me some cof- 
fee. That's all I want. (He continues to open 
and read letters) How is our interesting pa- 
tient ? 

Pine. He's resting, sir, after the fatigue of see- 
ing the doctor. (Pouring out coffee) 

Waverton. (Looking up, interested, from a let- 
ter he is reading) Oh, Dr. Wharton has been here? 

Pine. Yes, sir. 

Waverton. Well? 

Pine. (Crossing to Waverton with coffee) Dr. 
Wharton was cheerful about Mr. Burns' injuries. 
His diagnosis was a small shock to nervous system 
calling for an hour or two's rest. For slight wound 
on head he prescribed cold water and reduction of 
hair. For slight bruise on side, he prescribed tinc- 
ture of h'arnica. 

Waverton. Well, that's easy. 

Pine. He also prescribed a bath and change of 
underwear. 

Waverton. (Smiling and drinking coffee) He 
said nothing about carriage exercise? 

Pine. Not yet, sir ; but I'm sure if you give Dr. 
Wharton a chance 

Waverton. (Interrupting him, rises and crosses 
to table r., takes toast from rack and butters it) 
Pine, you don't like Mr. Burns. 

Pine. (Hypocritically) Me, sir? I'm sure that 
all God's creatures 

Waverton. No nonsense with me, Pine. I 
know you don't like him. Now, for my part, I 



PASSERS-BY 49 

entertain for him that tolerant affection that I should 
have for any lost mongrel that I chanced to be- 
friend. ... I want to do something to uplift 
him 

Pine. Uplift! That class! Excuse me, sir! 
(He sniggers. He takes coffee-cup and replaces it 
on tray, table r.) 

Waverton. Don't snigger, Pine. It annoys me. 
Now, I'm sure if Burns were cleaned up and given 
some light employment 

Pine. The employment might be possible, sir ; 

but in regards to the cleaning up (He makes 

an expressive gesture of disgust) 

Waverton. (l. of table r., firmly) When Mr. 
Burns is rested, you will conduct him to the bath- 
room — the servants' bath-room — and lock him in 
until he has availed himself of its resources. You 
will burn his clothes and furnish him with a suf- 
ficiency of your own, which I will replace for you. 

Pine. (r. of table r., resignedly) Yes, sir. 

Waverton. You will arrange a shakedown for 
him in the box-room. When he is well enough you 
can make him a sort of odd-job man. He shall 
have a trial any way. (Crosses to writing-table and 
sits l.c. Pine is looking lugubrious ) 

Pine. And with respect to his beard, sir? It's 
a shocking happendage. 

Waverton. (Abstractedly as he reads a letter) 
Oh, that must come off. 

Pine. (Brightening considerably and taking 
breakfast-tray ) Good ! I'll call in a barber, sir. 
(Exit Pine r.2e. Waverton gathers his letters to- 
gether on writing-desk. He rises and looks at his 
watch) 

Waverton. Good heavens ! I forgot ! (He 
hesitates for a moment, then takes up the telephone 
receiver) Hello, hello . . . give me 17004 May- 
fair. . . . Hello — is that 17004? ... Is that you, 



50 PASSERS-BY 

Simpson? . . . Yes — I'm Mr. Peter. I want you 
to tell her ladyship that I'm extremely sorry, but 
business of the gravest importance — what? . . . 
Her ladyship has left the house in the motor . . . 
and Miss Dainton ? Oh . . . they're calling for me 
here. Thank you, that will do. (He puts down re- 
ceiver) The Devil ! (A thoughtful pause. He 
touches the bell. Enter Pine r.2eJ Pine, I'm in 
an awful hole. I had quite forgotten an engage- 
ment I made to motor down into Hertfordshire this 
morning with her ladyship and Miss Dainton. Now 

I've asked Mrs. Summers to come back, and 

Pine. (Discreetly) Perhaps I could invent some 

little (The door bell is heard) 

Waverton. (Dryly) Some little lie. I've no 
doubt you could, but if that's her ladyship it's too 
late. 

Pine. Shall you be at home, sir? 
Waverton. I'm afraid I've got to be at home. 
(Exit Pine r.ie. Waverton walks about ner- 
vously. Re-enter Pine r.ie.J 

Pine. (Announcing them) Lady Hurley and 
Miss Dainton, sir. (Pine exits r.ie. 

(Enter Lady Hurley and Beatrice Dainton. 
Lady Hurley is a well-preserved woman of 
about forty-seven, of rather severe aspect and 
a forceful personality. Beatrice is a pretty 
girl of about twenty-three, with an habitually 
quizzical expression and humorous eyes. Both 
ladies are dressed suitably for motoring into 
the country for luncheon) 
Waverton. (Adopting an extremely agreeable 
tone) Good morning, Amelia (He kisses her lady- 
ship) Good morning, Bee. (He kisses Beatrice^ 
Beatrice. Good morning, Peter. (Crosses 
down l. to fireplace) 

Waverton. (l.cJ You didn't get my message 
then? 



PASSERS-BY 51 

Lady Hurley, (r.c.) What message? 

Waverton. I've just rung up the house. 

Lady Hurley. We have just left the house. 

Waverton. But I unfortunately rang up after 
you had left. 

Lady Hurley. Then how could we have had 
your message ? 

Waverton. (Thoughtfully) True. 

Beatrice. (Aside to him, and secretly laughing) 
You are a goat ! 

Lady Hurley. You don't appear to be ready 
for us. 

Waverton. (Leaning against r. end of sofa. 
Beatrice is l. of him, with her arm through his) 
No. 

Lady Hurley, (c.) Then get ready. I advise 
a thick overcvoat. It's cold. (Slight pause) Be 
good enough to hurry, Peter. Lady Tollington al- 
ways lunches ' early in the country. 

Waverton. The fact is, Amelia, I rang you up 
to tell you that matters of extreme importance had 
arisen, which make it quite impossible for me to 
motor down to Hertfordshire with you to-day. I'm 
sorry. 

Beatrice. (With a cheerfulness which is in- 
tended for Lady Hurley,) Well, that's very simple. 
We must go without you. 

Lady Hurley. It doesn't occur to me as being 
so very simple. 

Beatrice. Why, Aunt Amelia? 

Lady Hurley. (With emphasis) The appoint- 
ment was made yesterday morning and Peter was 
reminded of it by both of us after dinner last night. 

Beatrice. But he says that important matters 
have arisen since. 

Lady Hurley. Really, Beatrice, you must for- 
give me, but this is a family affair, and as you're 
not yet a full member 



52 PASSERS-BY 

Beatrice. Of the family ! No, not yet, Aunt 
Amelia ! 

Waverton. (With gentle irony) When you are, 
my dear, you will understand that no incident may 
be permitted to pass unadorned by its little scene, 
f Beatrice smiles up at him) 

Lady Hurley. My dear Peter, no rudeness or 
sarcasm will alter the fact that you have played fast 
and loose with an engagement with two ladies. 
Perhaps, however, you have become ultra-modern, 
and the fact that one of them is the girl you are 
going to marry 

Beatrice. (Breaking in) I'm quite satisfied 
with Peter's explanation. (A smile between Wav- 
erton and Beatrice,) 

Lady Hurley. (Ignoring the interruption) . . . 
and the other your half-sister and your senior by 
many years is sufficient excuse in your eyes for con- 
duct which I am compelled to regard as not quite 
nice. 

Waverton. (Crosses c. quietly) Have you quite 
finished, Amelia? 

Lady Hurley. (Crosses c.) I may be old-fash- 
ioned, but I hate anything raffish. 

Waverton. Have you quite finished, Amelia? 

Lady Hurley. If even you had some plausible 
excuse. (Sits chair l.cJ 

Waverton. My dear Amelia, I'm well aware 
you would rather miss lunching with Lady Tolling- 
ton than finding out what keeps me in town. 

Lady Hurley. (Indignant) Really, Peter! 

Waverton. (Sits on edge of table, r.) Oh, 
/ know — (He smiles) So here goes. I had visi- 
tors last night. 

Lady Hurley. Visitors at that hour ? 

Waverton. Yes. 

Beatrice. After you telephoned me? 

Waverton. Yes. 



PASSERS-BY 53 

Lady Hurley. Who were they ? 

Waverton. (Slowly) Just some passers-by. 

Beatrice. (Sitting r. arm of sofa, l.) But how 
exciting, old boy. 

Lady Hurley. (Gravely) Peter, I must warn 
you against eccentricity. It is in your blood. Your 
poor mother was eccentric. She used to pick up the 
most extraordinary people, much to the horror of 
papa and myself. 

Waverton. Well, Amelia, she's picking up ex- 
traordinary people in Heaven now and so peace to 
her dear memory. 

Beatrice. What was your bag last night, Peter ? 

Waverton. A statesman and an economist. 

Beatrice. You old dear ! I believe you are pull- 
ing our legs. 

Lady Hurley. Beatrice, you horrify me! Any- 
thing more wanting in delicacy 

Waverton. (Interrupting) The economist re- 
turned here this morning. 

Beatrice. Is he presentable ? 

Waverton. Not at the moment. I believe he is 
in his bath. (A doubtful look passes between Bea- 
trice and Lady Hurley,) 

Beatrice. Are you quite well, old dear? 

Waverton. Perfectly, thanks. 

Lady Hurley. If you're serious, Peter, you 
must be off your head. 

Waverton. I'm quite serious and quite sane, 
Amelia. 

Lady Hurley. Are the persons you refer to — 
gentlemen ? 

Waverton. (Rises and goes up c. a little) Oh, 
Amelia ! who shall judge a gentleman ? They have] 
however, some of the necessary attributes. 

Lady Hurley. I suppose we are to assume that 
the business which detains you in town is connected 
with these persons? 



54 PASSERS-BY 

Beatrice. I have it ! Peter's going into politics. 
Clever old thing! (She rises and crosses up 
to Waverton, and then both go up to win- 
dow, R.J 

Lady Hurley. If Peter is going mad he'd bet- 
ter see a doctor. If, on the other hand, he's going 
into politics, he has my approval. Politics is no 
longer essentially the career for a gentleman, but 
in these iconoclastic times when class is arrayed 
against class — (She suddenly sees one of Margar- 
et's gloves on writing-table) when class — is ar- 
rayed — (She picks up the glove and gazes at it for 
a moment unseen by the others) against class — 
(Slight pause) Beatrice, would you be good enough 
to wait for me in the motor? 

Beatrice. (Crosses down c, surprised) Cer- 
tainly, Aunt Amelia, if you have something confi- 
dential to say to Peter. 

Lady Hurley. I have. (Waverton, who also 
looks surprised, walks down r. to door, r.ie.) 

Beatrice. (Goes r. aside to Waverton J You're 
up to some mischief, old dear. What is it? 

Waverton. (The same) For Heaven's sake, get 
her away. 

Beatrice. (Aloud) Can't you postpone your 
talk with Peter, Aunt Amelia? We shall be so late 
for luncheon. 

Lady Hurley. (Firmly) Be good enough to 
wait for me in the motor. (Waverton and Bea- 
trice shrug shoulders, glance at each other, and 
exeunt, r.ie. The noise of outer door closing is 
heard. Slight pause, while Lady Hurley looks at 
the glove with some disgust, then drops it on writ- 
ing-table. Enter Waverton, r.ie.; a slight pause 
while they look at each other) 

Waverton. Well, Amelia ! 

Lady Hurley. (In the manner of one who bears 
a burden with resignation) Peter, I was unfor- 



PASSERS-BY 55 

tunately abroad when our father fell in love with 
and married your mother. 

Waverton. (Up R.c.J So you have frequently 
given me to understand, Amelia. 

Lady Hurley. Although she had many amiable 

qualities, the match was one which 

Waverton. (Firmly) You will kindly leave my 
mother out of the question, Amelia. Her loss was 
the tragedy of my childhood. 

Lady Hurley. I hope you remember that I did 
my best to replace her, Peter. 

Waverton. I remember everything, Amelia. 
But I'm afraid that this morning I have no time to 
indulge in reminiscences, however agreeable. 

Lady Hurley. If at times I have suffered dis- 
appointment in you I have done my best to con- 
ceal it. 

Waverton. No doubt! No doubt! 
Lady Hurley. I've always had your best in- 
terests at heart, and when I got you engaged to 
Beatrice Dainton I did so in the belief— — (Wav- 
erton looks up while she continues significantly ) 
that whatever errors you had committed in the 

p as t (Their eyes meet, there is a slight pause) 

Waverton. (To her) What the devil are you 
driving at? (He goes to her) 

Lady Hurley. (Rises, picking up the glove with 
the tips of her finger and thumb, rising and hold- 
ing it in front of him) What is this? 

Waverton. (Calmly, after a slight pause) It 
would appear to be a glove. 

Lady Hurley. A woman's glove. 
Waverton. Perhaps a gentlewoman's glove. 
Lady Hurley. Obviously it's the glove oi a very 
common woman. 

Waverton. Possibly only of a very poor 
woman. 

Lady Hurley. (Her eyes fixed on his as she 



56 PASSERS-BY 

lets the glove drop from her fingers on to the desk) 
You mean an economist. 

Waverton. (Frankly bursts out laughing) Oh, 
Amelia! Oh, dear Amelia! Life is full of com- 
pensations. In the old days — you'll hardly believe 
it — I used to be rather frightened of you, but in 
these latter days when I understand you ever so 
much better you afford me endless amusement. 

Lady Hurley. I suppose I must be very dull, 
but (Stiffly) 

Waverton. Admit that, although your comely 
and well-clothed body is here present, your imagi- 
nation for some minutes has been in the bath-room. 
(He walks towards door r.2eJ Come with me, my 
dear Amelia, come with me. 

Lady Hurley. Really, Peter, I must ask you to 
behave with ordinary decency. If you give me your 
word that the owner of this glove is not in your 
apartments 

Waverton. I give it gladly, Amelia — only be- 
cause I am rather pressed for time this morning. 

Lady Hurley. (Quickly) Then you know the 
owner? ( The door bell is heard. Waverton starts 
a little anxiously. He is up r.c.) 

Waverton. Oh, yes. 

Lady Hurley. But — but you decline to tell me 
who it is? 

Waverton. Absolutely, Amelia. (Enter Pine. 
Waverton gestures him, warning discretion) 

Pine. May I speak to you, sir? (Lady Hurley 
goes down l. Waverton goes to Pine behind table, 
r. They whisper and Waverton points to r.2e., 
indicating the room beyond. Exit Pine r.ieJ 

Lady Hurley. (Buttoning her coat) Very well 
— my duty is clear. 

Waverton. (Crosses l. to writing-table) If 
you mean your duty to me, Amelia, I beg that you 
will neglect it. 



PASSERS-BY 57 

Lady Hurley. I refer to my duty to Beatrice — 
who is under my protection. (Crosses r.) 

Waverton. (Taking up the glove) Ah, yes — 
you are right. You will tell Bee and she will tell 
me, and I may or may not tell her about the owner 
of this rather pathetic little glove. 

Lady Hurley. (Who has gone towards door 
r.ie. — turning) You would be wiser to tell me who 
she is. 

Waverton. She is a lady for whom I entertain 
the highest esteem. (Calls) Pine! (Crosses be- 
hind table, r. and dozvn to r.ie. J 

Pine. (In the distance outside) Yes, sir? 

Waverton. (In a conventional, "society" tone) 
Good-bye, my dear. Awfully sorry I couldn't come. 
Hope you'll have a nice day. (Through door) 
Pine, go down with her ladyship. Good-bye! 
(Exit Lady Hurley, r.ie. Waverton closes door, 
hesitates a moment, then opens door again and looks 
out, then crosses up r. to door. He hesitates again, 
then comes into the middle of the room. He ap- 
pears rather embarrassed. He smoothes his hair 
and pxdls his waistcoat straight. Then he walks 
to the door, r.2e. and opens it. In a subdued tone) 
Margaret ! (Slight pause. Enter Margaret. She 
stands calmly at her full length in the doorway for 
a moment, looking rather proudly at Waverton. 
Waverton looks first at her and then beyond her. 
Then he falls back two paces. Margaret reaches 
one arm behind her and gently and slowly pushes 
forward Little Peter. Enter Little Peter. He 
is a beautiful child of between five and six. His re- 
fined oval face is surrounded by a mass of curly 
blond hair. His eyes are large and solemn. He 
is dressed simply in inexpensive materials, but in 
perfect taste. He is just the child and the treasure 
of his mother. Waverton looks at Little Peter 
in profound admiration, almost in awe. His voice 



58 PASSERS-BY 

trembles a little as he says) : But — but — Margaret 
— he — he's wonderful. (He stoops and gives the 
boy his forefinger) 

Margaret. (A slight break in her voice) I 
thought perhaps — you would think so. 

Waverton. (Stands up with a nervous, pathetic 
smile) Damn it, Margaret, I — I'm shy. 

Margaret. (Suddenly putting her hand to her 
face as if to stop herself from crying) I'll come 
back. ( Margaret steps back quickly and exits 
R.2E., closing the door behind her. Little Peter 
looks after his mother — then at Waverton ) 

Waverton. Come along, little man ! (He gives 
the child his hand and leads him to the writing- 
table. Then he lifts him into a sitting position on 
the table) There! (Slight pause) I'll tell you 
something, old chap — I don't remember what in- 
terests little boys of five — what's your name? 

Little Peter. (In a soft voice) Peter. 

Waverton. Of course it is. I knew it already. 
That shows what a great big silly I am. My 
name's Peter, too. Isn't that funny? 

Little Peter. Yes. (Slight pause) 

Waverton. And yet it's not so very funny, Lit- 
tle Peter, because — because — however ! Do you 
play with other little boys? 

Little Peter. No. 

Waverton. Neither did I. I can remember 
that much. That's what makes us both so shy. 
(He looks around the room, and his eyes light on 
the old grandfather's clock which stands in a cor- 
ner) Know anything about clocks? (He picks 
Little Peter up in his arms) Here's a wonder- 
ful old chap, although he doesn't often take it into 
his head to go. (He turns the hands to the hour. 
The clock strikes. Little Peter looks in won- 
der, but doesn't smile) Pretty good, eh? 

Little Peter. Yes. 



PASSERS-BY 59 

Waverton. (Looking into the solemn face of 
the child, who is still in his arms) But only pretty 
good. I think you're right. Now I'm going to 
really tell you something. People think I can't 
sing, but I know I can. (Puts Little Peter on 
the ground, takes his hand and sings the chorus of 
Harry Lauder's song, "It's just like being at Hame." ) 
Do you like that? ('Little Peter nods his head. 
He lifts Little Peter on to the sofa and lays a 
hand on his curls. The child still wears his sol- 
emn look. Suddenly Waverton walks azvay, his 
back to the audience, to wipe the tears from his 
eyes. Pause. Then he speaks in a changed and 
cheerful voice) I have the idea, Little Peter. Pic- 
tures ! I can remember that too — I always loved 
pictures ! (He gets and brings to the sofa a 
book of engravings. He kneels by the side of 
the sofa and- opens the book) Do you like pic- 
tures ? 

Little Peter. Yes. 

Waverton. Well, now we're on common 
ground. (He looks cautiously round to be sure the 
doors are shut, and then for the first time kisses his 
child — then he rises. Little Peter with evident 
interest, slowly turns over the pages. Waverton 
goes to door r.2e. and opens it. With an affectation 
of impatience) Margaret! Margaret! 

Margaret. (Outside) Yes! 

(Enter Margaret, r.2eJ 

Waverton. What the deuce did you go away 
for? 

Margaret. (Blankly) I don't know. (Then 
she divines his mood and smiles. She looks over to 
the child. Waverton 's eyes follow hers and there 
is a pause for a moment while the child continues 
to be interested in the pictures) 

Waverton. (Up c.) He loves pictures — so do I. 
( Margaret smiles at him) Look here, Margaret, 



60 PASSERS-BY 

you and I have got to have a serious talk some 
time. 

Margaret. (r.cJ What about? 
Waverton. Well, for one thing I'm not going 
to have that fellow — what's his beastly name? — 
Henry 

Margaret. Robinson. 

Waverton. Well, whatever it is, I'm not going 
to have him interfering in the bringing up of my 
boy 

Margaret. Oh, Peter! (They look at each other 
for a moment) Can't you trust me? (His expres- 
sion softens. He takes her hand and pats it gently) 
Waverton. Why does he never play with other 
little boys? 

Margaret. The boys in our neighbourhood are 
so rough — perfect little devils. 

Waverton. Boys ought to be perfect little dev- 
ils — I'm convinced of it. What did Nighty think 
of him? 

Margaret. He didn't say. There was no op- 
portunity. ( Waverton crosses to fireplace and 
touches the bell. Margaret comes to back of 
sofa, l.J 

Waverton. We'll have him in. He may make 
the child smile. (Enter Pine, R.2E.J Is Nighty 
there ? 

Pine. Yes, sir, he's in the hall. 

Waverton. Bring him here. 

Pine. Yes, sir. 

Waverton. And, Pine! 

Pine. Yes, sir. 

Waverton. At any time Mrs. Summers' little 
boy is here, you'll take your orders from him. 

Pine. (Smiling broadly) Yes, sir. (Aside to 
Margaret,) He's a perfect beauty, ma'am. (Exit 
PineJ 

Waverton. (Still at fireplace) I want to see 



PASSERS-BY 61 

Little Peter smile. (Pine goes to door r.ie., opens 
it and motions to Nighty, who is outside) 

Margaret. (With spirit) He doesn't smile un- 
necessarily. He's a superior child. (She bends over 
to Little Peter lovingly) 

Waverton. All right, my dear, you needn't be 
cross. 

Margaret. Don't be absurd. 

(Enter Nighty, r.ieJ 

Waverton. Well, Nighty, what do you think 
of Mrs. Summers' little boy? (Pine lingers, deeply 
interested in the child) 

Nighty. (By table r.) The word is "Angel," 
guv'nor — or, more correctly, "Cherub." (He beams. 
They are all more or less beaming) 

Waverton. Tell me, Nighty, your own little 
boys at that age — were they very quiet? 

Nighty. . Quiet ! They were a pack of little 
devils, guv'nor. 

Waverton. You hear that, Margaret? 

Margaret. (In a musical voice as she strokes 
Little Peter's hair) There are boys — and boys. 

Nighty. Quite right, ma'am, and the best of'em 
are quiet before grown-ups. Perhaps it's because 
they don't trust 'em. (Enter Burns, r.2e. His 
hair has been cut, and he has been shaved and, in 
Pine's clothes — a jacket suit — he looks quite re- 
spectable. He is, however, extremely indignant. 
Waverton is the first to see him) 

Waverton. Why, this can't be my friend 
Burns! (They all look at Burns,) 

Burns. (In a tone of grave complaint) Yes, 
mister. That gent, there (pointing to Pine J, 'e puts 
the barber on me. A liberty, I calls it. (Little 
Peter rises and leans up against end of writing- 
table) 

Nighty. Why, you look a regular toff, Burns. 

Margaret. It's a wonderful change. 



62 PASSERS-BY 

Burns. (Agitated) I don't 'old with changes. 
I'm fair upset — without a "by-your-leave" or 
nothin'. It's a liberty. (Raises his voice angrily) 
Why, it ain't me — it ain't like me ! It's a houtrage 

— it's a (He is face to face with Little 

Peter. His expression slowly softens as he gases 
at the child, who is looking up at him. The others 
watch in deep interest. Simultaneously the faces 
of Burns and Little Peter break into smiles) 

Burns. (Bending towards Little Peter,) 
Hello, boy ! 

Little Peter. Hello, man ! 

Nighty. (Softly) Well, what do you make of 
that? 

Margaret. (Proudly, to WavertonJ My boy 
knows when to smile. (Little Peter and Burns 
shake hands. Picture) 

curtain 



ACT III 

Scene: The same as Acts I and II. It is about 
five o'clock one afternoon three weeks after the 
events of Act II. The day has been very fine 
and the evening approaches in a golden haze. 
The window r. is open, and the sound of traffic 
is heard in distance. On the curtain rising 
Burns is discovered. He is ivearing the clothes 
into which he has changed in Act II, partially 
covered by a long apron. He is on the sofa 
looking through a picture book, just as Little 
Peter was in Act II. A patent carpet-sweeper 
is leaning up against chair, l.c. Suddenly 
Burns thinks he hears some one coming. He 
starts guiltily and seising the handle of the 
sweeper affects to zvork. Then realising that 
it was a false alarm, he drops the broom handle 
and goes to the window up r. On the way he 
picks up a pin) 

Burns. (Soliloquising with satisfaction) A 
black-head ! (He puts it in his waistcoat. He is 
absorbed in gazing out of the window. After a few 
moments' interval the door l. of the room opens si- 
lently and Pine appears. He comes c. and takes 
hold of sweeper-handle which is leaning against 
piano. Enter Little Peter unseen by the others. 
He lies on sofa and conceals himself with cushions) 

Pine. I thought so ! ^Burns starts and turns, 
shuts window and comes down to r. of piano. Noise 
of traffic ceases) This morning I put you on to this 
carpet — did you do it? — No. This afternoon I put 
you back on it — are you doing it? — No. You're 
loafing. That's what you're doing — loafing. 

Burns. (Sulkily) Bother! 

Pine. What were you doing at that window ? 
63 



64 PASSERS-BY 

Burns. Smelling the dust — I like it. (Takes 
broom-handle from Pine,) 

Pine. Your sort would. (Burns moves the 
sweeper languidly over the carpet) Why don't you 
put your back into it ? 

Burns. Me back's weak. 

Pine. That's only a fiction. 

Burns. What's a fiction? 

Pine. Polite for falsehood. 

Burns. My! Wish I was eddicated. 

Pine. (Sitting on chair L.c.j I've been looking 
at those knives you've supposed to have cleaned. 
I'm afraid you'll have to go over them again. 

Burns, (r.c.) Sha'n't. 

Pine. You mustn't speak to me like that. I 
don't want to have to complain to Mr. Waverton 
about you. 

Burns. Oh, don't yer! 

Pine. I'd rather he remained under the illusion 
that there's some manhood in you. 

Burns. (Turns on Pine,) 'E's on my side, 'e is. 

Pine. Oh, he's made a case of you — being a bit 
balmy. Personally I should have left you where 
you was best fitted. 

Burns. It was you as fetched me in. 

Pine. By his orders. I only drew his attention 
to you because you were like a picture in a comic 
paper. 

Burns. (With an absurd outburst of rage) Oo 
put the barber on me — that's what I arst ? 

Pine. I did — by his orders. 

Burns. (Much impressed) 'Tain't true. 

Pine. It's the golden gospel. Between us we 
made you look something like a human being. But 
are you a human being, Burns? The reply is, in 
the language of poetry, "Yes, I don't think, don't 
think, don't think!" You don't know poetry, 
Burns ? (Rises) 



PASSERS-BY 65 

Burns. (In mild anger) I'm straightforward — 
that's wot I am. 

Pine. Poor chap ! 'Opeless ! Well, we can only 
go on doing our little best. 

Burns. You'll miss me when I'm gorne. 

Pine. (Going to door l.) Oh, yes, I'll miss you. 
But you won't go, Burns — your sort never goes. 
(Exit Pine l. Burns throzvs a malevolent look 
after him, then continues to feebly push the sweeper. 
After a moment's pause Little Peter comes from 
his concealment, and taking hold of the lozver part 
of the sweeper-handle , assists Burns to shove it. 
Burns laughs and discontinues work himself, 
leaving the sweeper in possession of Little 
Peter,) 

Burns. That's right — give it a good 'ard shove. 
(Little Peter does so. Burns sits l. of table r., 
and pointing in the direction in which Pine has 
gone, says with some heat:) 'E thinks 'e's my boss, 
but he ain't. I never 'ad no boss — never in my life. 
("Little Peter continues to work. Slight pause. 
Burns beckons to him) 'Ere — little 'un — 'ere! 
(Little Peter puts down the szveeper-handle and 
goes to Burns ) I don't like 'im, and 'e don't like 
me — there! 'E's bad. 

Little Peter. Is he? 

Burns. Yes. It's snap — snap — snap with him 
all the time. There's no peace. An' the liberties! 
'E 'ad me beard took off. You never see me with a 
beard. 

Little Peter. Was it a long one? 

Burns. Middlin'. Yes, it's snap — snap — all work 
and sharpness. 

Little Peter, (c.) Poor* Mr. Burns. 

Burns. "Bums !" That what 'e calls me. Im- 
perdence! Nobody never calls me nothing before. 
Me other name's Samuel. 

Little Peter. Is it? 



66 PASSERS-BY 

Burns. Yes. Call me Samuel. (Pauses) 
Won't yer? I wouldn't let no one else. 

Little Peter. Samuel! 

Burns. That's right. — 'Ere, I'll show you some- 
thin'. Yer won't tell ? 

Little Peter. No. 

Burns. (In great confidence) I got me cap back. 
(He half pulls it from his breast-pocket and puts it 
back again) I've 'ad it years and years. *E took 
it away the day 'e put the barber on me, but I creep 
an' creep in the night, an' I foun' it. (The door sud- 
denly opens. Enter Pine. Burns rises hastily. 
Little Peter goes down l.J 

Pine. (Crosses down c. to Little Peter. With 
grave indignation) Master Peter, it's not beseem- 
ing that you should talk to the under servants. (He 
comes dozvn and takes Little Peter's hand and 
goes R.J I have to take you for a nice drive in a 
cab, after which your Ma is coming to take you 
home. That poor chap isn't a fit companion for a 
young gentleman like you. 

Burns, (c. Bitterly to Little Peter,) That's 
right — I'm the dirt under yer feet. 

Little Peter. (With a look from Burns to 
PineJ I like him. 

Pine. Young gents' tastes is very himature. 
(Little Peter nods at Burns. Exeunt Pine and 
Little Peter, r.ie. Pine shuts door after them) 

Burns. (Soliloquising. Drops szveeper) My 
sort never goes! (With great determination) 
Don't it ! (Burns evidently makes up his mind to 
a course of action. He begins by taking off his 
apron which he flings under piano — then after a 
longing look through the window he goes softly 
towards the door. The door r. at that moment 
opens and Little Peter appears, dressed to go out) 

Little Peter. (Shuts door and comes to r. of 
table r. In a guarded voice) Good-bye, Samuel. 



PASSERS-BY 67 

Burns. (Down l.c. In the same tone and beck- 
oning with his hand) 'Ere ! ('Little Peter, after 
a glance over his shoulder, goes to Burns,) Do you 
like rabbits? 

Little Peter, (r.c.) Yes. 

Burns. I know where there's 'undreds. You 
make a loop with a bit of string an' sometimes you 
can catch 'em; then you pick 'em up by the ears, 
never by the feet, always by the ears. String's wot 
yer want. I got heaps. (He takes a collection of 
string out of his pocket and shows Little Peter ) 
See ! (Pause) It ain't far. Will you come ? 

Little Peter. Yes. 

Burns. There'll be a moon to-night. 

Pine. (Outside) Master Peter! Master Peter! 

Little Peter. Ssh ! ("Little Peter gets quick- 
ly _ under piano and beckons to Burns, who follows 
him) 

. (Enter Pine r.ieJ 

Pine. Come along, Master Peter. (Pause. He 

looks round) Now, where the (He raises his 

voice) Master Peter ! Master Peter ! (Exit Pine 
l. Burns and Little Peter scurry lightly across 
to principal door r.ie v which is open. Little 
Peter exits. There Burns stops and turns round 
for a moment) 

Burns. (Looking towards door l.) "My sort 
never goes!" Yah! (Exit Burns,) 

Pine. (Outside) Master Peter! (Enter Pine 
l.J I 'ate those silly games. (He looks round the 
room at the possible hiding-places, then goes back 
to the door l. Raises his voice) I suppose you're 
hiding behind that sofa! If you think I'm going 
to duck about and make bags of my trousers you're 
mistaken. (Slight pause) I don't want to be hard 
on you, Burns, but I'll have to report you for this ! 
(Suddenly he notices the time by the clock) Good 
Lord! ten to five! (He hastily puts the patent 



68 PASSERS-BY 

sweeper outside the door r.2e. and does one or two 
little things to straighten the room. Then he goes 
back to door l.) Burns, have done with this 

Nighty. (Outside r.) Mr. Pine! Mr. Pine! 

Pine. (Starting nervously) Hello! (Raises his 
voice) Is that you, Nighty? 

Nighty. (Outside) Yes. (Enter Nighty r.ieJ 
What about this drive? 

Pine. (On whom a fear is evidently growing 
up, l.c.J Who let you in? Cook? 

Nighty. No, I walked in. The door was open. 

Pine. Open? 

Nighty. Yes. 

Pine. Who opened it? 

Nighty. (Down r.) Well now, Mr. Pine, 'ow 
should I know? I suppose you left it open last 
time you came in. 

Pine. (After a slight pause) Look here, Nighty, 
that Burns — damn him ! — I wish he'd never come 
here — him and the boy think they're having a game 
with me — hiding — silly rot I call it. 

Nighty. Go on, they're only children, both of 
'em. 

Pine. You have a look round these rooms while 
I look at the back. Try behind the sofa in there. 
(Pointing to door l.) 

Nighty. Right you are! (Exit Pine quickly 
r.2e. A broad smile steals over Nighty's face, he 
makes a search of the room) Come along, Master 
Peter. It's only old Nighty! (Pause. Then he 
exits l. softly through door, tiptoeing, as if playing 
with children. Then there is a slight pause. Re- 
enter Nighty, looking puzzled and grave. He looks 
under piano and finds Burns' apron. Enter Pine 
by door, R.2E. He is much excited and alarmed) 

Nighty. They're not here. 

Pine. And they're not out there. Not a sign of 
them. 



PASSERS-BY 69 

Nighty. (Handing him the apron) This was 
under the piano. 

Pine. (Deeply agitated R.cJ My God, Nighty, 
I'm in trouble. 

Nighty. (l.cJ Pull yourself together, Mr. Pine. 

Pine. I tell you it's ruin for me. That cursed 
loafer's gone off with the child. They were here 
one moment, and the next they was gone as if the 
earth had swallowed them ! I always had an in- 
stinct about that cockroach — and my instincts 

Nighty. (Firmly) Never mind your instincts, 
Mr. Pine — the business is to find 'em. They can't 
have gone far. 

Pine. You're right, and, by God, I'll break every 

bone (The door bell is heard to ring) That's 

the mother — a thousand to one. 

Nighty. Or the guv'nor. 

Pine. No. He'd use his latch-key. If she was 
to know she'd go stark staring mad. Not a word, 
you understand. Leave it to me. (Exit Pine 
quickly, r.ie. Nighty, grave and troubled, stands 
waiting, c. After a slight interval, enter Margaret, 
followed by Pine, r.ie. ) 

Pine. (By door. Hurriedly and with affected 
cheerfulness) It's Nighty, ma'am. 

Margaret. (Who appears in good spirits) Good 
afternoon, Nighty. (Crosses up c.) 

Nighty. (Affecting cheerfulness, works round 
to door r. behind table) Good afternoon, ma'am. 

Pine. (Also affecting cheerfulness) We're just 
starting to take the young gentleman for a little 
drive, ma'am. 

Margaret. Where is Master Peter? 

Pine. (Quickly) He's stepped across to the cab- 
rank with Burns, ma'am. ( Nighty is now making 
for the door, bowing and smiling painfully) Mr. 
Waverton's motoring, ma'am. He'll be in on the 
stroke of five. 



70 PASSERS-BY 

Margaret. (Taking off her jacket) Don't go 
too far. 

Nighty. No ma'am. Just round Constitution 
Hill and the Palace. (Exeunt Pine and Nighty, 
closing door, r.ie. Margaret folds her jacket and 
takes her hat off and lays them on piano. She then 
takes off her gloves. She is humming an air. She 
then takes a piece of work from her bag and makes 
herself comfortable in chair l. of table r. Waver- 
ton's latch-key is heard in the outer door. Mar- 
garet looks up for a moment and then back at her 
work. Slight pause. Waverton enters r.ie. in 
motoring clothes) 

Waverton. Hello, Margaret! 

Margaret. Hello, Peter ! ( Waverton takes off 
his coat, cap and gloves, and lays them on chair r., 
just against r.ie. ) 

Waverton. So glad you've come. I'm not late, 
am I? 

Margaret. No. I was a little early. 

Waverton. I've been trying my motor with the 
new light body on it — she goes splendidly. I wish 
you'd let me take you for a run one day. 

Margaret. I should be afraid. I've never been 
in a motor-car. 

Waverton. How old-fashioned of you. It's 
time you began. 

Margaret. I'm too old to begin. 

Waverton. (Walking about and laughing) 
You! Old! (He laughs) You're still a child. 
(As he passes her chair, he lightly touches her shoul- 
der. Note : His attraction to her and her knowl- 
edge of it and instinctive defence underlie the en- 
tire scene) I'll ring for Pine, and we'll have some 
tea. 

Margaret. I've had tea, thank you. Pine and 
Nighty have taken Little Peter for a drive. They've 
just gone. 



PASSERS-BY 71 

Waverton. Ah! I forgot! I left instructions. 
(He goes up l. to the spirit stand) Well, if I'm to 
nave tea alone I'll take it with soda-water. (He 
mixes himself a whisky and soda, and drinks) Do 
you know, my dear, I think you are very good to 
me. 

Margaret. I ? How ? 

Waverton. First of all, in letting me see the 
boy twice a week. 

Margaret. I thought it only fair to you both. 

Waverton. Secondly, in coming to fetch him 
away yourself. That is unearned increment. I 
hope it won't be taxed. (He lights a cigarette, 
crosses c. Margaret keeps her face down over 
her work. Waverton looks at her, but gets no 
sign of her thoughts. He sits at his writing-table. 
There is rather a long pause) 

Waverton. • Margaret ! 

Margaret. Yes ? 

Waverton. I want you to make it three times a 
week. 

Margaret. Don't ask me, Peter. I'm sure it 
would be unwise. As it is I have misgivings. 

Waverton. Misgivings? 

Margaret. I'm not sure we are acting fairly. 

Waverton. To whom? 

Margaret. Well — to — to Miss Dainton. (Slight 
pause) You have told her nothing. 

Waverton. (Embarrassed) No, not yet. I 
called for her in the motor to-day — meaning to take 
her for a drive and to tell her. I think I was glad 
she was out. I suppose she ought to know. But 
it's difficult — she's only a girl. 

Margaret. (Slowly) She must be told the 
truth, Peter — otherwise I can't 

Waverton. (Hastily) You are perfectly right, 
my dear. I shall tell her to-morrow. (He rises 
and walks a little down l.) Fortunately Beatrice 



72 PASSERS-BY 

has the keenest sympathies. She's just all good- 
ness. (Coming to her) What work's that you're 
doing ? 

Margaret. Knitting. 

Waverton. What? 

Margaret. Socks. ("Waverton sits on top of 
table r., leaning towards her) 

Waverton. Little ones, I see. 

Margaret. For little feet. 

Waverton. Must you always work? 

Margaret. (Laughing lightly) Having a piece 
of work in one's hand enables one to concentrate. 

Waverton. Oh, really? 

Margaret. Some people say that if you keep 
your feet together and your hands together, you 
complete the circuit. I don't know what it 
means 

Waverton. Nor do they. 

Margaret. Nor do they — but I fancy this has 
the same kind of effect. (Holding up her work) 
You understand? 

Waverton. (Vaguely) Yes, I suppose so. (He 
laughs slightly. She laughs slightly. Then they 
laugh together rather more than the occasion would 
warrant) I told you you were only a child. 

Margaret. (Returning to her work) And you? 

Waverton. I (He takes up wool, which 

Margaret, after a moment, gently takes away from 
him) I think that in some ways of late I've grown 
younger. I used to feel too old for my age — now 
perhaps I'm too young for my age — all on account 
of that kid of ours. Damme, I find myself think- 
ing all the time of cricket and football and the games 
I missed as a boy through the old man being ass 
enough to decided against a public school. But I 
can give Little Peter swimming and shooting and 
handling a horse or boat with the best of 'em. I 
don't mind telling you, my dear, that even now, I 



PASSERS-BY 73 

wouldn't change my hands on a horse with- 



However, I don't want to boast. (Rises and goes c.) 

Margaret. You forget I saw you win the point- 
to-point race at Blairfield 

Waverton. So you did. So you did. (Slight 
pause) Do you know that little chap grows on one 
like the devil. 

Margaret. Does he, Peter? 

Waverton. Yes. Of course with you it's dif- 
ferent. The maternal instinct is a very potent 
factor. 

Margaret. It just means loving — loving dread- 
fully. 

Waverton. (Sits arm of chair, l.cJ Exactly. 
Now with us mere men — common, ordinary mascu- 
line clay — the affection has to grow. The first 
feeling is one of embarrassment. One is a father! 
The devil ! Awkward responsibility. What's to 
be done about it? Then one finds one is the father 
of a kind of glory like Little Peter — with some like- 
ness to what we were ourselves in our obscure 
youth! — Aha — reproduction of Us. (Tapping his 
chest) What better model ? Chip of the old block ! 
Our vanity is tickled. And so that's what it comes 
to, my dear — the paternal feeling — all vanity. (He 
pulls chair towards her, and sits. She laughs) I 
may be wrong — but I think Little Peter an unusual 
child. 

Margaret. He sometimes says wonderful 
things. 

Waverton. He always looks wonderful things. 

Margaret. (In a hushed tone) Perhaps — per- 
haps he has a touch of genius. 

Waverton. Perhaps. It would be a nice change 

in a Waverton (They are silent for a moment, 

and then their eyes meet and they smile) Have you 
his picture in that locket? (Margaret's hand goes 
quickly to her neck — where the locket is just under 



74 PASSERS-BY 

her dress. The light begins very gradually to get 
dimmer as the sun is setting) 

Margaret. Yes. 

Waverton. Mightn't I see it? 

Margaret. (Rising, shaking her dress straight 
and putting down her zuork) It's only an old one — 
taken two years ago. (Crosses l.c.J 

Waverton. Two years ago ! Little Peter at 
three! Let me see it. (Rises and comes to r. of 
her) 

Margaret. (Getting away from him, lJ I — I 
think I have another copy — I'll bring it to you. 

Waverton. But, my dear, don't you under- 
stand? I want to see it now. Do be kind. (He 
holds out his hand for locket) 

Margaret. No ! No ! You can't see it now. I 
don't want you to. 

Waverton. But I must. (He holds her while 
she struggles) Margaret, don't be so cruel. I'm 
dying to see it. Don't be a perfect brute to me. 

Margaret. (Panting) Peter — be reasonable! 

Waverton. No, really — it isn't nice of you. 
(Suddenly, by a desperate effort, Margaret 
wrenches herself free and rushes to the fireplace. 
He follows her) Margaret! 

Margaret. ( Her voice raised) Do you want me 
to throw it in the fire ? (Her hand is on the locket 
at her neck and site is breathing heavily) 

Waverton. (Flinging himself on the sofa) No. 
(He is much agitated. There is a pause while they 
both make an effort to regain self-control) 

Margaret. (Endeavouring to speak evenly — l. 
end of sofa l.) Now you are very angry. I'm 
sorry. 

Waverton. I'm not angry. You were quite 
within your rights. (Raising his voice) But you 
can't expect me to be particularly exhilarated by the 
thought (He breaks off abruptly) 



PASSERS-BY 75 

Margaret. Well. By what thought? 

Waverton. (Angry and vaguely jealous) What 
did you suppose I should think? (Slight pause. 
He sits up) Must I say it? (Slight pause) That's 
the picture of another man 

Margaret. ( Waving her trembling hands) Ssh ! 
Don't say that, Peter! 

Waverton. But isn't it natural, as you were so 
damned careful not to let me see 

Margaret. (Quickly) No — yes — I suppose so 
— but you don't understand. You'll take my word 
though — I'm sure of that, and I give it. Your 
thought was — was wrong. (Goes up l., round top 
pf writing-table ) 

Waverton. (A little ashamed) I'm glad and 
— and I'm sorry. Forgive me. (He looks down at 
his hands nervously) I'm a fool ! (She is r. of 
writing-desk ) 

Margaret. If one could only convince oneself 
that everything is all right — and just the way it's 
got to be 

Waverton. (Rising — goes up to l. writing-table ) 
You haven't asked me why — why I bothered so 
much about the locket? (He is longing to tell her 
it was because he loves her) 

Margaret. (Quickly) No — I don't want to 
know. (She does know) 

Waverton. Perhaps you guess. 

Margaret. (Almost passionately ) No. Can't 
you see? I prefer not to. (She is now at the other 
side of the desk and she takes up the picture of 
Beatrice,) 

Waverton. (Behind writing-table. Almost an- 
grily) You may put that down — I forget nothing. 
(He takes photo from her, and replaces it on 
table) 

Margaret. It was unintentional, I assure you, 
Peter, I took it up unconsciously. I — I am very 



7 6 PASSERS-BY 

nervous. Without meaning it, I'm afraid we hurt 
each other. (Goes c.) We must be more — more 
conventional or else I sha'n't be able to come here 
again. 

Waverton., (Quickly and gently) Don't say 
that, Margaret. (She goes to table r., and sits and 
picks up her work. Crosses r. to behind-table, rJ 
It was all my fault. I'm a perfect brute. (He takes 
the work from her) And don't work any more. 
(Puts work on piano) The light's getting too bad. 
(Puts chair c. up to zvriting-table, and sits on arm. 
Pause) Play something for me. (They both now 
try to be conventional ) 

Margaret. I play! Oh, my dear Peter, my 
playing days are over. My fingers have lost what 
little cunning they had. 

Waverton. Don't you get any practice now? 

Margaret. Very little — and that only on my 
landlady's piano. Imagine it — (rises) — a tall, se- 
vere repellent affair with a green silk front and 
three broken notes. 

Waverton. (Smiling) I can see it. There are 
probably woolwork flowers on the top under a glass 
case. 

Margaret. Yes, and a stuffed squirrel. 

Waverton. (Going to piano) Do try mine. It's 
up to date, though possibly out of tune. 

Margaret. (Going to piano) But, really, Peter, 
it's quite out of the question. (She sits) 

Waverton. Anything. (He stands against the 
piano looking at her. Margaret begins playing 
Schubert's "An die Musik" very softly. Pause) 
That's it. Nothing clings so desperately to the 
memory as music, Margaret. 

Margaret. (Still playing) No. (Another 
pause) 

Waverton. That's as I first saw you at 
Amelia's. It was after dinner, and the new gover- 



PASSERS-BY 77 

ness had been sent for to play to us. (Softly) You 
were the new governess. 

Margaret. (Softly) Yes, I was the new gover- 
ness. 

Waverton. And that is what you first played. 

Margaret. Yes. 

Waverton. (He listens for a few moments be- 
fore he speaks in subdued tones) I sat, at it were, 
over there — (pointing l.) watching you from be- 
hind the evening paper. Dear God ! how shy I was ! 
I was afraid you would catch me looking at you and 
still more afraid that Amelia would catch me. She 
sat there, in what had been my mother's favourite 
chair, and in complete command as always of the 
situation. Hurley sprawled in an arm-chair asleep 
as usual, and my father stood over at the mantel- 
piece secretly disapproving the sentiment of the 
music. It was a typical domestic English evening, 
but in that quiet room love was at work. (Leaning 
on the piano) Their hostility began it. The very 
air was charged with it, and with the distrust of 
youth. Instinctively we formed an alliance against 
the common enemy. And so came our secret meet- 
ings and the discovery of our mutual loneliness. 
And then Margaret — then 

Margaret. (Ceasing to play, rising in much 
agitation) You mustn't go on. I can't listen. 
It isn't right. I must go — you must send the 
child 

Waverton. (Determined) Wait — I've got to 
say this. What a man has lost through no fault of 
his own still belongs to him in his heart of hearts. 
And it was through no fault of mine that I lost 
you, Margaret. All the luck was against me, but I 
want you to know that I wouldn't have given you 
up — no, Margaret — by God I couldn't! (He is 
close to her, and appears about to take her in his 
arms. Unheeded by Margaret and Waverton the 



78 PASSERS-BY 

outer door bell has sounded and at this moment the 
noise of the door being opened is heard) 

Margaret. (Listening) The child! Thank 
God ! (Lady Hurley's voice is heard outside) 

Waverton. (Listening) No ! It's my sister ! 

Margaret. (Alarmed) Lady Hurley ! ( She is 
about to move) 

Waverton. (Laying his hand on her arm) Don't 
you move. 

Lady Hurley. (Outside) It's all right, my good 
woman, we know our way. 

Waverton. (Quickly and impressively) Will 
you trust me, Margaret? 

Margaret. (Up r.c. Looking full at him) 
Yes. (Waverton comes down l.c. Enter Mrs. 
Parker, r.ie., opening the door for Lady Hurley 
and Beatrice, who enter. Mrs. Parker closes the 
door and exits) 

Lady Hurley. (Crosses lJ You must forgive 
this invasion, Peter, but you've brought it on your- 
self by your neglect. 

Waverton. (Going to her) Delighted to see 
you, my dear — and you, Bee. (Crosses c. — 
he touches Beatrice lightly on the shoulder as 
he passes her to the electric light switches 
down r. The evening light has become very 
dim) 

Beatrice, (c.) Heartbroken, old dear, to have 
missed you when you called. 

Waverton. What we all need is more light. 
(He szvitches on the light) 

Lady Hurley. (Suddenly seeing Margaret,) 
I'm afraid our visit is ill-timed. 

Waverton. (Going quickly up to window) And 
drawn curtains give a sense of intimacy. (Drawing 
the curtains) You and Miss Summers know each 
other, Amelia. (Lady Hurley at writing-table falls 
back a step utterly dumbfounded. Introducing) 



PASSERS-BY 79 

Miss Dainton — Miss Summers! (Both the girls 
bow) 

Beatrice (c.) and Margaret (r.c. Together, 
rather faintly) How d'you do? 

Lady Hurley. (Aside to Waverton, zvho has 
come down l. to fireplace, gasping with indigna- 
tion) How dare you ! 

Waverton. (Quietly) What's the matter, 
Amelia ? 

Lady Hurley. How dare you introduce such a 
woman to Beatrice. 

Beatrice. (To Margaret ) I'm glad to meet a 
friend of Peter's, Miss Summers. (They shake 
hands. Slight pause) 

Margaret. Thank you. 

Lady Hurley. Beatrice, you'll be good enough 
to wait for me in the motor below. 

Beatrice. (Up c.) Oh, no, Aunt Amelia; I 
don't think I can be quite good enough for that. 
Not to-day. 

Lady Hurley. (By sofa l. firmly) Please do 
as I wish. 

Beatrice. I'm sorry I can't, Aunt Amelia. I 
have a strange feeling that my days of waiting in 
the motor below have gone for ever. 

Lady Hurley. There are some things that 
young girls mustn't know about. 

Beatrice. Perhaps they're the very things that 
young girls ought to know about. 

Lady Hurley. (With quiet indignation) Very 
well. You bring the unpleasantness upon yourself. 
I'm sorry to have to tell you that this person left 
my employment in circumstances 

Waverton. (At fireplace, interposing firmly) 
Wait, Amelia, I'm sure that you'd never forgive 
yourself if you said something offensive about a 
lady who is my guest. 

Lady Hurley. I don't wish to be unnecessarily 



80 PASSERS-BY 

offensive, Peter — but if Miss Summers is to re- 
main, I must go. 

Waverton. I should regret your going, my 
dear, but if you feel 

Lady Hurley. (Quickly interrupting) Come, 
Beatrice (Moves as if to go) 

Beatrice, (c.) I can't, Aunt Amelia. Peter 
evidently wants to tell me something that I ought 
to know. He'll tell me the truth. I trust Peter. 

Waverton. (Crosses r. a little) Shall I take 
you down, Amelia ? ( A pause. Lady Hurley hesi- 
tates) 

Margaret. I will go. (Comes down r. a little) 

Waverton. (Goes r. below table) I particularly 
wish you to remain. 

Beatrice. So do I, Miss Summers. 

Lady Hurley. (Coming to a decision) As Bea- 
trice is in my care I can't leave her here alone. 
There would appear to be no respect, no obedience, 
no decency left in the world. However, I have 
made my protest against what I consider a scan- 
dalous proceeding. 

Waverton. (By door r.ieJ I have made a 
mental note of your protest, my dear, and I'm glad 
you've decided to stay. I must beg of you, how- 
ever, to exercise self-control. I think that's better 
done sitting than standing. ('Lady Hurley re- 
moves her furs which she left on sofa. Then sits 
on sofa. Goes up c.) Beatrice! (He goes to her 
and gives her chair, l.c.J 

Beatrice. (Laying a hand for a moment on his 
arm) You dear old thing ! 

Waverton. (Pulls chair out l. of table r.) Mar- 
garet, please don't stand. ( Margaret site, in the 
chair, r.c. Waverton position standing behind 
Margaret,) I had no intention of permanently con- 
cealing from you my friendship with Miss Sum- 
mers, Bee. I'm sure you believe that. 



PASSERS-BY 81 

Beatrice. I always believe everything you say, 
Peter. 

Waverton. We became friends six years ago 
when Miss Summers was governess in my sister's 
house. It is idle to attempt to explain what forces 
drew us together — but there is the fact — we became 
everything to each other. 

Beatrice. (Slowly) I understand. 

Waverton. On Amelia becoming acquainted in 
some way with the facts 

Lady Hurley. Since you insist on knowing the 
truth, Beatrice — a line of conduct which I consider 
most improper, unsuitable and deplorable — I dis- 
missed my governess on discovering she was carry- 
ing on a disgraceful intrigue in my house. 

Waverton. My sister not only dismissed Miss 
Summers, but in her zeal deprived me of all op- 
portunity of repairing the wrong I had done by 
telling me she had gone abroad to another engage- 
ment. 

Lady Hurley. I did so in your own interests. 

Waverton. I am sure of it, Amelia. Then the 
postal authorities must have blundered, for two let- 
ters which Miss Summers wrote me never reached 
me. ("Lady Hurley draws herself up stiffly) 

Margaret. I don't think it is necessary to go on. 
I have never thought that Lady Hurley could have 
acted in any other 

Waverton. (Interrupting) I beg of you to let 
me finish, Margaret. (Crosses l. to behind sofa) 
I leave it to your wider experience, Amelia — do 
letters — properly and carefully addressed letters — 
very often go astray in the post? (Pause) 

Beatrice. Where were the letters sent, Peter? 

Waverton. To the only address Miss Summers 
knew of — to my sister's house. (Another pause. 
Lady Hurley is obstinately silent) 

Beatrice. If you had received the letters you 



82 PASSERS-BY 

would have- — have seen Miss Summers again, 
Peter ? 

Waverton. (Slowly, behind writing-table ) Yes. 
I think she knows that now — it is only fair to me 
that she should know it — and it is fair to you that 
you should know it. 

Beatrice. (Gently) You loved her, Peter, dear. 

Waverton. Yes. 

Margaret. (To Waverton. Sitting r.cJ I 
hope you will explain to Miss Dainton that our 
meeting again was an accident and that my presence 
here implies no disloyalty to her. 

Beatrice. I'm sure of that, Miss Summers. 

Margaret. Mr. Waverton told me immediately 
of his engagement to you. 

Waverton. And Miss Summers informed me of 
her engagement — whose name I have unhappily for- 
gotten. 

Margaret. (Rises) Mr. Henry Robinson. 
(Goes up to piano and gets muff, etc.) 

Lady Hurley. (To Waverton ) And do you 
consider these secret meetings in your rooms quite 
fair to this Mr. Robinson? 

Waverton. (Crosses to above table, r.) How 
like you, Amelia — always thinking of others ! 

Beatrice. Surely, Aunt Amelia, this is Miss 
Summers' affair — not ours. 

Lady Hurley. I see Miss Summers is going. 
In so doing she wins my approval for the first time. 
(Rises and faces Margaret) I should like her to 
know first that I threw her two letters into the fire. 

Beatrice. Aunt Amelia! 

Lady Hurley. (Firmly) I have no regrets. I 
saw the boy to whom I had devoted so much care 
falling into an abyss. I did what I thought best to 
save him. If I failed, the fault isn't mine. 

Margaret. (Goes to Beatrice, who rises) 
Good-bye, Miss Dainton. If I have unconsciously 



PASSERS-BY • 83 

caused you a moment's unhappiness, I am sorry. 

Beatrice. (In pained tones) Please don't speak 
of it! (Goes up l.c. near window. Enter Pine, 
r.ie. Nighty can just be seen in the doorzvay be- 
hind him) 

Pine. (Agitated) Can I speak to you a moment, 
sir? 

Waverton. Yes — what is it? 

Margaret. (Quickly) Where's the boy? 
( Pine hesitates) 

Waverton. Well? 

Pine. Disappeared, sir — with Burns. (Lady 
Hurley rises) 

Margaret. My God! 

Waverton. (Firmly) Can't you trust me, Mar- 
garet ? 

Margaret. Yes. (Covers her face with her 
hands for a moment) 

Pine. Nighty and I have been searching for 
them for over an hour. (Nighty steps into the 
doorway. The scene to be taken very quickly all 
through) 

Waverton. Have you been to Scotland Yard? 

Nighty. No, guv'nor — but we passed the word 
to all the policemen we met. 

Waverton. Round to the garage, Nighty, and 
order my car. You will come with me. (Exit 
Nighty r.ie. Exit Pine) It only means, Mar- 
garet, that the Wanderer has returned to the road 
and has taken the other child for company. Don't 
worry — I'll bring them back. (He quickly gathers 
his coat, hat, and gloves from chair by r.ie.) 

Lady Hurley. There was mention of a boy. 
Whose boy ? 

Margaret. My boy, Lady Hurley. 

Waverton. (At door, r.ie., firmly) And mine, 
Amelia. 

Lady Hurley. Peter! (She staggers slightly. 



84 PASSERS-BY 

Margaret sits chair r.c, her face in her hands) 
Beatrice. Peter ! ( She is gravely distressed) 
Waverton. Beatrice! You have a heart. 
(Points to Margaret, and exits r.ie.) 

Lady Hurley. (Picks up furs) Come, Beatrice. 
("Beatrice first looks towards door that Waverton 
has gone through, then at Margaret, then at Lady 
Hurley. Beatrice with great determination drops 
her muff on chair l.c, then removes her hat and 
drops it with muff. She crosses to above table r, 
and lays her hand on Margaret's shoulder. Mar- 
garet looks up at Beatrice and breaks down, bury- 
ing her face in her arms across the table. Beatrice 
sits on chair above the table, and holds Margaret's 
hand in deep sympathy. Lady Hurley, strongly 
disapproving, stands by writing-table) 

curtain 



ACT IV 

Scene : The same as the previous Acts. It is 4.30 
in the morning. The room is softly lighted by 
electricity, not all the lamps being turned on. 

On the curtain rising Beatrice is discovered asleep 
in an arm-chair l.c. Margaret is looking out 
of window. There is a pause. Margaret 
walks the room. Evidently she is thinking dis- 
tractedly of her lost child. She stops once to 
look down at the sleeping girl, and seeing that 
the rug over her knees has slipped down she 
gently readjusts it. She then crosses to fire- 
place and puts a fresh log on fire. Hearing 
the sound of a passing taxi, she hurries to the 
window and looks out through the curtains. 
As it doesn't stop she comes back into the room 
with a disappointed air and resumes her rest- 
less walk. "Big Ben" is heard striking 4.30. 

Beatrice. (Stirring) Hello — was I asleep? 

Margaret. I hope so. 

Beatrice. What a healthy person I am. (She 
rubs her eyes) I hadn't the remotest intention of 
going to sleep. 

Margaret. (r.cJ You sleep easily because you 
are young. 

Beatrice. Young? I? Oh no, Miss Summers 
— I'm grown up suddenly. I don't think any one 
can look realities in the face and remain young. 

Margaret. Well, because you are good. 

Beatrice. (Laughs) Good! Why, my entire 
mental life has been punctuated with crime. 

Margaret. (At table r., with a slight smile) 
Now you're making fun of yourself. 

Beatrice. It's true. How many times do you 
think I have murdered Aunt Amelia ? Even Hurley 

85 



86 PASSERS-BY 

and the children haven't escaped me. There have 
been occasions when I've dabbled in the blood of the 
entire family. What time is it? 

Margaret. Half-past four. 

Beatrice. Half-past four ! (Rises and crosses 
to Margaret,) And you have been walking about 
and wearing yourself out while I've been resting. 
I feel ashamed. Do let me tuck you up in this nice 
chair and I'll keep watch for the motor. 

Margaret. Thank you — you are very sweet — but 
I feel I couldn't rest — I don't seem to be able even to 
sit still. (Crosses to fireplace) I — I want my child. 

Beatrice. You have no faith, (c.) 

Margaret. Yes, yes, I have — but I am a mother. 

Beatrice. It must be wonderful to be a mother. 

Margaret. (By fireplace) Yes, it's wonderful 
— and beautiful ; but I suppose it's like everything 
else in life — one pays for the joy with the pain. 

Beatrice, (r. end of sofa ~l.) Miss Summers! 

Margaret. (Softly) Yes. 

Beatrice. I insist on your sitting down. 

Margaret. (Hesitating) I — I 

Beatrice. (In a tone of forced command) Come 
here! ('Margaret goes to her) Sit there! (Indi- 
cating r. end of sofa. Margaret smiles and obeys. 
Beatrice arranges a cushion behind her) There ! 
(Pulls footstool out from beneath sofa and places 
it for Margaret ) Put your feet on that. ( Mar- 
garet does so) Now fold your hands and close 
your eyes. ("Margaret does so. Slight pause. 
Suddenly two tears roll down Margaret's cheeks, 
which Beatrice wipes away with her hand) No — 
you mustn't. 

Margaret. I won't — I promise. It's only 

Beatrice. Ssh ! (Lays a hand on Margaret's 
arm. Slight pause) 

Margaret. I know I oughtn't to let you stay — 
but 



PASSERS-BY 87 

Beatrice. (Sits l. arm of sofa) But you can't 
get rid of me. I've made up my mind to stand by 
you, whether you like it or not, until Peter brings 
your boy back. 

Margaret. Lady Hurley rang up again half an 

hour ago. , . 

Beatrice. What did the darling old thing say? 

Margaret. I began to tell her you were asleep, 
but she rang off directly she heard my voice. 

Beatrice. Cat ! 

Margaret. At least she's a consistent cat. 

Beatrice Oh, yes — consistent to the death. 
With all her faults she's a tremendous mother — you 
know — one of the aggressive ones. She'd mother 
the entire human race if she could, and every one 
would have a beautiful time— I don't think! I'll 
bet anything she's dying to know if the child is 
found. But do you think she'd ask you? Not for 
an empire ! 

Margaret. Isn't that amazing? 

Beatrice. To me it's only Aunt Amelia. 

(Enter Pine r.2e. Cross to above table l.J 

Pine. Is there anything I can get you, miss ? 

Beatrice. No, thank you. (As an excuse for 
lingering Pine folds the rug that is lying on the 
arm-chair, then lays rug over back of chair l.c.J^ 

Pine. I thought perhaps, miss, you would like 
some coffee. 

Beatrice. (Her hand on Margaret's shoulder) 
Would you? (Margaret shakes her head. Note: 
During all this part of the Act Margaret is obvi- 
ously exercising great self -repression) No, thank 
you, Pine. We shall not require anything till Mr. 
Waverton returns. 

Pine. Excuse me, miss, but there's no knowing 
when that will be. London's a big place — the sub- 



88 PASSERS-BY 

urbs are still more hextensive — and as for the 
country 

Beatrice. (Rises and crosses to r. end of sofa. 
Interrupting, as she notices the ill-effect Pine's 
words have, on Margaret,) Don't talk nonsense! 
A well-dressed child with a tramp isn't likely to es- 
cape notice. 

Pine, (c.) Pardon me, miss, but if I may make 
so bold, this Burns was dressed very respectable. 
He was apparelled in a suit of my own — reduced to 
size. 

Beatrice. (Anxious for Margaret ) Very well, 
Pine, that will do. 

Pine. Thank you, miss. (Starts to go, then 
hesitates and returns a few paces) It's a consola- 
tion to those in service, miss, when duty done is 
recognised. 

Beatrice. I'm sure it must be, Pine. 

Pine. Thank you, miss. (Half goes; slight 
pause) Charity is a noble thing, miss, and to see it 
misdirected into unworthy channels gives pain to 
the deserving. (With a quick movement Margaret 
lays her hand on Beatrice's arm and gives her an 
entreating look) 

Beatrice. I told you, Pine, that you might go. 
(Speaking very firmly) 

Pine. (Cowed) Yes, miss. (Exit Pine r.2E., 
closing the door after him) 

Beatrice. Idiot! (The telephone bell rings) 

Margaret. (Springing up) That must be Peter! 

Beatrice. (Crosses to telephone, takes receiver) 
Hello ! (She listens) No, it's only Aunt Amelia. 
('Margaret, disappointed, walks to the windozv up 
l. Beatrice speaks into telephone) Yes, Aunt 
Amelia, it's me — I mean it's I. No, the child hasn't 
been brought back yet. (To Margaret) What did 
I tell you? — but we're not worrying. We have 
every faith in Peter. (Listening) Yes, and, as you 



PASSERS-BY 89 

say, in the police. Everything will be all right. 
(Listens) Can't you? I'm sorry. Try counting a 
flock of sheep going through a gate. (Listens) 
No, Auntie dear, there's not the faintest use in 
sending for me. Here I stay until Peter comes 
back. Meanwhile and always I remain, your ever 
loving niece Beatrice. (Puts down receiver. Mar- 
garet smiles) Ah, I've made you smile at last! 
(She motions to Margaret to chair l.c. Margaret 
comes to chair and sits. Beatrice crosses to fire- 
place and pushes logs on fire with her foot. Then 
she sits on piano stool, which has been left below 
writing-table l.c J And now that you're being very 
good I'll let you talk about your boy. Of course 
he's beautiful. 

Margaret. People say he is 

Beatrice. Is there a picture of him here? 

Margaret. I have one. (She puts her hand to 
her locket) 

Beatrice. May I see it? (Margaret takes off 
locket and chain. She is about to hand them to 
Beatrice — but suddenly stops) 

Margaret. There is another picture here. 

Beatrice. (After a momentary pause) Well, of 
course it is one of Peter. (The two girls look 
bravely at each other) 

Margaret. Yes. 

Beatrice. (In a soft voice and holding out her 
hand for the locket) That's just as it should be. 

Margaret. (Impulsively she grasps Beatrice's 
hand) I — I can't tell you how sweet and generous 
I think you are to me. 

Beatrice. (Rises and crosses up c a little) Why 
shouldn't I be? 

Margaret. Because I, unconsciously, have 
brought a shadow into your life. 

Beatrice. (Crosses up c. and round top of writ- 
ing-table and then down to lamp on table) No, no 



9 o PASSERS-BY 

— believe me. For a moment I had a shock — I ad- 
mit that, though I tried hard not to show it. It was 
the fault of a foolish, ignorant bringing-up such as 
most girls have. But indeed it was only for a mo- 
ment. What has Peter's past or your past to do 
with me? Who am I to judge? (At this moment 
she has opened the locket; her tone entirely changes. 
Switches on lamp, after examining locket, switches 
off light again) Oh, but what a beautiful 
child ! 

Margaret. (Delighted) Do you think so? 
Really? 

Beatrice. Rather! He's simply ripping. I want 
to ask you something — so much. 

Margaret. You make me feel that I would tell 
you anything. 

Beatrice. (Slowly, as she kneels on sofa facing 
Margaret,) When you got your boy — did you feel 
that you were compensated for all — for everything 
you had suffered? (Pause) 

Margaret. (Looking straight in front of her) 
I'll tell you, because it was a wonderful thing — a 
sort of miracle. I had had a terrible time — and I 
exaggerated my wrongs and felt that I was for- 
saken by God and man. Then I lay for a time in 
a hospital and hoped I should die. In my soul there 
was nothing but bitterness and revolt. I was a 
revolutionary — a shrieking sister, and on the white 
ceiling of the little room I saw devils. Then came 
a climax of suffering — and in the last conscious mo- 
ment I thought I was dying. 

Beatrice. And then? 

Margaret. (With a deep sigh) Then Little 
Peter woke me up. Oh, the ecstasy of it ! I 
wouldn't have changed places with any woman in 
the world. Do you know I actually laughed aloud 
while the child slept against my breast. 

Beatrice. (Perplexed) Why did you laugh ? 



PASSERS-BY 91 

Margaret. To think that I had ever dreamed 
of any ambition but simply to be a mother. 

Beatrice. (Looking at the picture in locket) 
Perhaps any woman who was the mother of such 
a beautiful boy would feel like that. I wonder? 
(Face front. Pause as she 1 looks into the locket) 
There's a good deal of likeness, don't you think? 

Margaret. Oh, yes. 

Beatrice. (Glancing at Margaret unseen by 
her) Only the child is much handsomer than the 
man. 

Margaret. (Gently) Perhaps that's only be- 
cause he's at the pretty age. 

Beatrice. His features are much more regular. 

Margaret. Do you think so? 

Beatrice. And there's more sensibility — and — 
and a sort of added refinement in his face. 

Margaret. But surely you would call Peter 

(She stops) 

Beatrice. What? Handsome? (Gets off sofa 
and lays locket on writing-table) 

Margaret. Well, I don't know. I suppose I 
am no judge. 

Beatrice. Perhaps you mean attractive. (Crosses 
round top of table. Slight pause) Do you think 
Peter very attractive? 

Margaret. (Confused) I — really 

Beatrice. (Impulsively) Don't answer. I'm a 
mean pig. Of course Peter is as attractive as a man 
has any right to be. (Sits on edge of table facing 
Margaret,) If you weren't such a splendid primi- 
tive creature you'd have known I was setting a trap 
for you. 

Margaret. (Surprised) Setting a trap for me ? 

Beatrice. Yes — to find out if — if you love Peter 
still. 

Margaret. (Rising and drawing away r.) Miss 
Dainton, I 



92 PASSERS-BY 

Beatrice. (Sitting on table) Do you? (Slight 
pause) Of course you needn't tell me unless you 
wish to. 

Margaret. (r.cJ I'd like to tell you — but — I 
— I can't. 

Beatrice. (Rises and goes to Margaret) What 
has Peter done that you should have ceased to love 
him? 

Margaret. He has ceased to love me. 

Beatrice. How do you know? 

Margaret. (Rapidly) He's engaged to you — 
you are suited to each other. I am perfectly con- 
tent. (Goes down to below table, then up r. to 
piano) It takes more than I have gone through to 
knock the foolish pride out of a stupid woman. 
Please don't say any more about it. 

Beatrice. (Crosses down l. a little. Reflec- 
tively) Why does any one love any one, I wonder? 
Why do you love your boy outside your feelings as 
a mother? 

Margaret. (Smiling. Comes down r.c.) Be- 
cause he's so young — and so old — and so foolish and 
so wise — and because he's such a lamb — such an 

absolute duck! And because (Three toots of 

a motor horn are heard. Beatrice rushes to the 
window. Margaret clutches the back of chair r.c. 
with one hand, and with the other covers her mouth 
to ^prevent herself crying out) 

Beatrice. (In great excitement, looking out 
through the window) Yes, there they are ! There 
they are ! And there's your child, asleep in Peter's 
arms. 

Margaret. (Murmuring and half -fainting ) 
Thank God ! Oh, thank God ! 

Beatrice. (Crosses down l. of Margaret J 
There, there, my dear — don't faint after being so 
splendid. Think of it ! Your beloved child asleep 
in Peter's arms! And Peter is engaged to me! 



PASSERS-BY 93 

And you are perfectly content ! Well, I'll be blowed 
if I am! (They face each other) Oh, you glorious 
liar! (The noise of outer door and many footsteps 
is heard. Crosses r. to door r.ie.J Don't let Peter 
see how pale your cheeks are ! (Opens door. Mar- 
garet, c, draws herself up by an effort of will and 
recovers her strength. Beatrice has left the win- 
dow^ curtains half-drawn, and till the end of the 
play the grey morning light slowly grows outside. 
Enter Waverton carrying Little Peter in his 
arms. Little Peter is wrapped in the overcoat 
Waverton gave to Burns and is asleep. The 
speech and movements of them all just here should 
be very gentle. Waverton goes to Margaret, 
meeting her c. She takes the child gently from 
his arms) 

Margaret. (Very simply) Thank you, Peter. 
(She carries Little Peter to the couch l. and lays 
him down. Waverton stands watching her as she 
arranges a cushion under the child's head. Bea- 
trice goes to Waverton ) 

Beatrice. (Her hand on Peter's shoulder) 
Peter, dear old thing — I'm so glad. 

Waverton. (l.c, grasps both her hands) You 
stuck to your post — I knew you would. (Beatrice 
goes to the back of the couch and bends over to look 
at the child. At a gesture from Waverton, Pine 
enters r.ie. and comes to him and takes his over- 
coat) Bring Nighty and Burns here. 

Pine. Yes, sir. (Slight hesitation) Did you 
wish me to communicate with the police, sir? 

Waverton. No. Word has been sent that the 
child is found. 

Pine. I mean in respect to the man Burns, sir. 

Waverton. (Firmly — giving Pine a look) Do 
what I've told you. (Waverton goes up r. to side- 
board and mixes a whisky and soda, which he 
drinks) 



94 PASSERS-BY 

Pine. Certainly, sir. (Exit Pine r.u.eJ 
Beatrice. (Softly to Margaret J Yes, he's 
wonderful. I understand better now, and perhaps 

if he were my own — my very own There's 

something in that, isn't there? 

Margaret. (Smiling) Oh yes, indeed, there's a 
great deal, in that. Would you give me the rug? 
(Beatrice motions to Waverton, who comes down 
l.c. and hands her the rug, which is back of chair 
l.c. Margaret lifts Little Peter out of the coat, 
which Beatrice takes away, replacing it on the sofa 
with the rug. Beatrice throws Burns' coat on 
chair up l. Margaret lays Little Peter on the 
rug and throws the ends over him. Beatrice is 
behind sofa. Waverton by table l.c.,) 

(Enter Pine, opening the door for Burns and 
Nighty. Pine remains a little behind the 
others. Leave door open. Nighty goes to 
Waverton, l.c J 

Waverton. You needn't go, Pine. 
Pine. (Who had no intention of going) Thank 
you, sir. 

(Burns is standing below table r.c, twisting his 
cap in his hands.) 

Waverton. (Nighty is r. of Waverton ) Well, 
Nighty, give me the benefit of your wisdom. What's 
to be done with Burns? Pine is for calling in the 
police — (Burns gives Pine a look) but I don't 
think Pine has ever suffered, and I distrust the 
judgment of those who have never suffered. 

(They all speak in slightly lowered tones, as the 
child is asleep.) 

Nighty. I never call in the police myself, guv'- 
nor, till I've called in everybody else. (Crosses to 
Burns,) What have you got to say for yourself, 



PASSERS-BY 95 

Burns? What made you up an' run off with the 
young gent? (Pause — Burns is obstinately silent. 
Nighty crosses l. ; a little aside to Waverton,) 
Never so much as opened 'is mouth in the motor- 
car. 

Waverton. Is there anything at all to be done 
with him, do you think, Nighty ? 

Nighty. 'Fraid not, guv'nor — not enough air, 
light, and water in hinfancy. Excuse me, but that's 
a 'obby o' mine. An' then the breeding was all 
wrong. (Crosses round top of table l. and down 
to behind Waverton ) Best let 'im go back to 'is 
own class. (Goes up l. a little) 

Waverton. What do you say, Bee? 

Beatrice. (Behind writing-table ) I can't help 
you, Peter, for I'm one of those who have never 
suffered. 

Waverton. (Looking at her keenly) You are 
sure? 

Beatrice. (Meeting his eyes firmly) Quite 
sure, Peter. (Goes down to fireplace) 

Waverton. And you, Margaret — you haven't 
the same excuse 

Margaret. I'm too happy to sit in judgment on 
any one, and I have to thank Mr. Burns for lend- 
ing my little boy his overcoat. 

(Waverton and Nighty look at each other, 
smiling) 

Pine. (Crosses c. above table r. to Waverton ) 
Begging pardon for the liberty, sir, but there are 
institootions for people like this poor chap, pro- 
vided for out of the rates. 

Waverton. That will do, Pine. 

Pine. Excuse me, sir, but 

Waverton. That will do. I don't think you can 
help us much. I'll ring when I want you. Make 
some coffee. 



96 PASSERS-BY 

Pine. (Looking rather outraged) Yes, sir. (He 
walks to the door R.2E. with much dignity. Exit 
Pine; 

Beatrice. Where did they go to, Peter? 

Waverton. (Sitting edge of table l.cJ I gathered 
from Little Peter before he fell asleep in my arms 
that they had promised themselves a rabbit hunt. 

Beatrice. (By fireplace) A rabbit hunt ? How 
fascinating ! 

Nighty. (Upi..) Couple of kids ! (He smiles) 

Waverton. I got on their track in Hammer- 
smith, where they took the tram. 

Nighty. I was always against them trams! 

Margaret. And where did you find them? 

Waverton. In the neighbourhood of Hounslow. 
They were in a field against a hayrick. Nighty 
spied them with the assistance of a motor lamp. 
(Crosses round top of table to behind same) 

Nighty. (Coming dozvn l. a little) The young 
gentleman was sleeping wrapped up in the overcoat 
with hay all round him. He was as snug as a bug 
in a rug, ma'am. 

( Margaret and Beatrice laugh at this, and, slight- 
ly confused, Nighty retires up l., grinning 
foolishly) 

Margaret. (To Waverton; And Mr. Burns? 

Waverton. He was sitting up against the hay- 
rick, also sleeping. 

Burns. (Suddenly breaking his long silence) I 
wasn't sleepin'. I was thinkin'. 

Beatrice and Margaret. (Mildly surprised) 
Thinking ! 

Nighty. (Smiling indulgently) Thinking 

(He looks at Waverton, amused at the idea of 
Burns thinking) 

Waverton. Thinking, Burns? What were you 
thinking of? 



PASSERS-BY 97 

Burns. (With suppressed passion, and with the 
laboured and painful eloquence of a man who has 
never spoken at such length before) I was thinkin' 
why carn't people let other people alone ? You say 
you carn't do nothin' with me. I say this (Crosses 
l.) "'Ooo arst ye to?" That gent there (pointing 
a trembling hand at the door r.) 'e started it. 'E 
fetched me 'ere on my way to the Embankment, 
w'ere [where] I 'ave a right an' w'en [when] I 
think I've fun' kine friends, 'e puts the barber on 
me and takes the little gent away as if I was a 
dorg. W'y couldn't yer leave me be? I wasn't 
beggin' — I know the law an' I 'old by it — I was just 
walkin' along same as usual — well, wot o' that? If 
the passer-by give yer somethin' becorse 'e's sorry 
fer yer, wot 'arm — that's wot I arst — wot 'arm? 
(Raising his voice slightly) 

Margaret. (Gently) No harm, Mr. Burns. 

Waverton. Perhaps the passer-by is only sorry 
for himself, Burns. 

Nighty. (A step towards Burns, well up c, ad- 
monishingly to Burns,) But what about taking 
that young child away? 

Burns, (c.) Comin' to that wot I was thinkin', 
w'ich was that rabbits was on'y an excuse in an- 
ger, and I take the young gent back in the mornin' 
and arst to be let alone. An' now you got 'im back 
anyway, wot I say is don't 'old no meetin's over me, 
but let me be. (Raising his voice passionately) 
That's wot I say — let me be ! 

Margaret. (Fearful that the noise will wake 
Little Peter; Ssh ! Mr. Burns ! ( She points to 
the child) 

(Burns' manner undergoes an entire change. All 
the passion seems to die out of him. His face 
softens. He goes a few steps towards the sofa 
— his eyes on the child) 



98 PASSERS-BY 

Burns. (To Margaret, in a hoarse whisper) 
'E call me Samuel, 'e did ! — That's what 'e called 
me. (He goes c.) Samuel! (He puts on his cap, 
tucks his hands into the opposite sleeves and walks 
softly out. Exit Burns r.ie. The people on the 
stage are motionless until the click of the outer door 
is heard. Nighty and Waverton exchange a look) 

Waverton. (Crossed up l. and picks up Burns' 
overcoat) Take him his overcoat, Nighty. (Nighty 
takes overcoat) And tell him (He hesitates) 

Nighty. Tell him what, guv'nor? 

Waverton. Well, tell him to give us another 
trial — sometime — when things are bad. (Nighty 
goes r.ie.,) 

Nighty. (At door) Your servant, ladies! (Bows. 
Exit Nighty, r.ie., shutting door) 

Waverton. (Going to back of chair l.c. and 
looking at the child) He's all right, isn't he? 

Margaret. Quite all right, Peter — not a bit 
feverish. (She is holding one of Little Peter's 
hands) 

Waverton. It's too early to take him home. 
You'd better tuck him up in bed for a while. 

(She lifts the child, leaving the rug on the sofa. 
Beatrice crosses to l. door and opens it; she 
kisses Little Peter as he is carried out) 

Waverton. Come back. (When Margaret is 
at the door) Pine's making coffee. (Exit Mar- 
garet carrying Little Peter. Waverton sits 
in chair by writing-table and lights a cigarette) 
Bee, you're a brick. However, that's an old 
story. 

Beatrice. (Behind writing-table) Rot! 

Waverton. I suppose I ought to take you home 
now. 

Beatrice. I'm not going yet. 

Waverton. It's nearly five. 



PASSERS-BY 99 

Beatrice. (Takes cigarette from box on table) 
I often dance till six. Besides, I find your domes- 
tic affairs exceedingly interesting. 

Waverton. My dear, if I don't begin excusing, 
apologising and explaining you must blame your 
own superior understanding. 

Beatrice. (Smiling, crosses round top of table 
to c.) That'll suit me, old boy — and all shall be 
forgiven if, without the kind permission of Aunt 
Amelia, you will let me smoke one cigarette. (Wav- 
erton lights a match, from which she lights a cigar- 
ette. Gives match back to Waverton. She smokes 
appreciatively for a few moments, backs up a few 
steps and leans against piano) Peter, old dear, it 
has been put about by various authorities that every 
cloud has a silver lining. 

Waverton. (Gravely) That is so. 

Beatrice. . Now your silver lining is that I am 
peacefully smoking a cigarette instead of being in 
hysterics on the floor. 

Waverton. That's simply because you're Bea- 
trice and no other. 

Beatrice. Oh, well, perhaps I'd better take all 
the praise you'll give me, dear old thing. It's a 
great help. (Comes down c.) It's admitted then 
that I'm a fine creature. You're a judge of fine 
creatures, Peter. That's a fine creature who just 
carried your child out of the room. 

Waverton. Yes. 

Beatrice. Fine in a finer way than I am. 

Waverton. (Rising, going to her, and laying a 
hand on her shoulder) Bee, dear, I doubt if there 
could be a finer way. 

Beatrice. (r.c.J Yes — and she has it. You 
don't suppose I've been alone with her for eight or 
ten hours without turning her inside out? 

Waverton. (Smiling) No, I don't suppose that. 
(Goes down lJ 



ioo PASSERS-BY 

Beatrice. (Leaning against table r.c.J Peter, 
old dear, you'd best prepare yourself for the worst. 
I'm going to give you the chuck. 

Waverton. Beatrice ! 

Beatrice. (Knocking the ash off her cigarette 
as she goes to stool l.cJ Not in anger — not in 
pique — not even because it's much more blessed to 
give the chuck than to receive it. 

Waverton. (Standing r. of sofa, his r. foot on 
stool) My dear — my dear! 

Beatrice. Oh, / know. It's inevitable anyway! 
(Her left hand is resting on Waverton's knee) 
You love me all right — quite as well as is neces- 
sary — as well perhaps as most men love the woman 
they are going to marry — but you forget something 
that I haven't forgotten — you told me when we be- 
came engaged that you had loved before. This 
was the woman, wasn't it ? (She looks at him. He 
nods his head) What is between you two is a big- 
ger thing altogether. It's just a matter of Fate. 
She adores you — you're her God on earth. (He 
shakes his head and turns away) And you — you 
love her, Peter, you know you do. (Pause. She 
takes his chin in her left hand and turns his face 
so that they face each other) And I know you dare 
tell me the truth. 

Waverton. (After a little pause, during which 
they look into each other's eyes) Yes — I love 
her. 

Beatrice. You dear, brave old thing! I knew 
I could trust you. Throw this away for me. (He 
takes the stump of her cigarette and throws it in 
the fireplace. She goes up to c. to hide her emo- 
tion, then to the writing-table and sits on edge — 
her left foot on stool) And don't you run away 
with the idea that I don't love you, too. I do. I 
love you because you are so young and so old, and 
so foolish, and so wise. But there's nothing in- 



PASSERS-BY 101 

evitable about it, and in any case we're quite un- 
suited to each other. 

Waverton. (Down l., protesting ) Oh, come, 
my dear ! 

Beatrice. Absolutely ! Our tastes are quite un- 
like. You don't take any interest in Society, and 
gossip, and scandal, but it all amuses me vastly. I 
always have an awful good time, and the Duchess's 
love affairs and what she will do now are matters 
of thrilling interest to me. 

Waverton. (Sits r. arm of sofa) Bee, Bee, 
you're slandering yourself. 

Beatrice. Not a bit ! And when / marry it will 
be a man who shares my tastes ; a clean, well-built 
young fellow who dances well, wears nice ties, and 
is a perfect devil on the golf links. I know dozens 
of 'em ! I shall marry a man I can make something 
out of — good raw material. I could never have 
made anything out of you, Peter, you're beyond me, 
old dear. (She gathers the rug, crosses up c.) 
There's your real mate! Your Margaret! (She 
points l. then goes up r.) 

Waverton. (Sits on stool, l.cJ Bee, old dear, 
you are trying to marry me to a woman who is 
engaged to another man. ( Beatrice indulges in a 
rippling little laugh) What's the matter? 

Beatrice. Robinson you mean — Henry Robin- 
son ! (She laughs again, the rug trailing over her 
arm) 

Waverton. I believe that is the name. 

Beatrice. (Coming a little down c.) I wouldn't 
worry about Harry if I were you. 

Waverton. Why not? 

Beatrice. (Coming back to him) Have you 
ever seen him? 

Waverton. No, praise God ! 

Beatrice. Have you ever heard his voice — even 
on the telephone? Have you ever seen his photo- 



102 PASSERS-BY 

graph, even in a snapshot? (She bends closer to 
him and lowers her voice) Do you believe in him? 
(They look at each other) I don't! (Back to 
chair r.c.J 

Waverton. (Rises and goes to her, taking a 
deep breath and laying his hands on her shoulders) 
Do you mean to say ? 

Beatrice. You may kiss my forehead. 

Waverton. You dear! (He kisses her. Bea- 
trice goes to door R.2E.J 

Waverton. Where are you going? 

Beatrice. (Throws rug over shoulder) I'm be- 
ing tactful. (Opens door R.2E.J Also I'm going 
to have a little snooze in the library. Henry Rob- 
inson ! Old Harry ! (A rippling laugh, on which 
exit Beatrice. Her laugh is still heard for a few 
moments after she has shut the door) 

(Enter Pine r.ie. with small tray containing coffee. 
Pine looks very cheerful. He places tray on 
table r. ) 

Pine. Coffee, sir — and toast! (Exit Pine r.ie. 
Waverton goes towards the fireplace. On the way 
he finds, where Beatrice has left it, Margaret's 
locket. He takes it up and goes to fireplace, put- 
ting locket in his pocket) 

(Enter Margaret, lJ 

Waverton. Would you give me a cup of coffee, 
Margaret ? 

Margaret. (Crosses to table r. and pours out 
coffee) Where is Miss Dainton? 

Waverton. (r. end of sofa l.J She's lying 
down in the library. 

Margaret. She's been an angel to me. 

Waverton. She is an angel. 



PASSERS-BY 103 

Margaret. She must be very tired. 

Waverton. Not too tired to chuck me. 

Margaret. (Looking up, shocked and troubled) 
Chuck you? 

Waverton. It's her word. It means to release, 
to repudiate, to go back on, to throw over — in fine, 
to break an engagement with. (He comes down 
and sits on stool l.c., his back to her) 

Margaret. (Much disturbed, crosses c.) Peter 
— she — she can't mean it! (Then stands behind 
him) 

Waverton. Oh, yes — it's final. 

Margaret. Was it — was it — through any fault 
of mine? 

Waverton. Oh, dear no ! She discovered we 
are unsuited. She's perfectly right. The truth is 
I'm not good enough for her. I'm' rather by way of 
being generally out of it, Margaret — and I don't 
think I'm very happy. 

Margaret. (Suffering for him, in a low voice) 
Not happy ! Peter ! ( She stretches out her hands, 
longing to place them on his head) 

Waverton. I'm afraid I'm a human sort of 
person. 

Margaret. (To herself — her hands at her 
breast) Oh, God! 

Waverton. However, everybody else is happy. 
Beatrice is on the track of a fine golfer and you 
have your Henry Thingamebob. (He rises. He 
raises his voice and puts a fictitious courage into it) 
Here's your locket, my dear. (Hands Margaret 
locket, which she opens, his back is almost turned 
to her. She puts locket in his hand. He slowly 
looks at ft and an expression of great relief and 
tenderness comes into his face) Why — why didn't 
you let me see before ? 

Margaret. My wretched pride. I didn't think 
you wanted me, Peter ! 






104 PASSERS-BY 

Waverton. (Falteringly) And — and — your 
Mr. Robinson? 

Margaret. Oh, Peter, I'm an awful liar and a 
wicked woman ! There was never any Henry Rob- 
inson. He was simply an invention. You wronged 
me in believing me — in thinking it possible that any 
other man could ever enter my life ! When I gave 
myself to you, it was for ever and ever — whether 
you cared or not — whether you loved me or not — 
whether you lived or died. (Waverton, overcome, 
sinks on chair r. of desk) Oh Peter ! How could 
you doubt me? (She kneels at his feet) Why, I 
don't think I know another man in the world even 
by sight ! 

Waverton. Margaret — my love! Margaret! 
(He takes her closely in his arms) 

SLOW CURTAIN. 



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